Unresolved
by Aquaphobe
Summary: "Make out with someone in this room that you've never kissed before," Clyde dares. No one expects Craig to turn to his boyfriend of eight years – least of all Tweek.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Clearly, I don't own South Park (much to my continued disappointment).

A/N: so... this has been sitting around on my computer for a little while now, and I never bothered uploading it because...

Well, honestly, I have no idea.

I've got the entire story plotted out from start to finish, and the first three chapters already written out though, so there is that.

...

 _Unresolved_

1

...

"Come on, dude," Craig says again from where he's spread out across the length of Tweek's bed, chullo hat on the floor and dark hair in such a mess that Tweek wants to runs his fingers through it. "You promised you'd go."

Tweek, only just having climbed back up the stairs after getting them both another huge mug of coffee to share (really, Craig ought to feel blessed – Tweek doesn't share with just anyone), rolls his eyes. "Ugh, you know I hate parties. And crowds—"

"And loud noises, and lots of bodies, and drugs and alcohol and good music and having fun, and just about everything else… yeah, I know. But you promised, honey." Is he actually pouting?

Making a sound of disgust, the blonde takes a huge gulp of the scalding drink, sets the mug down on the table wish a sloshing clunk, and shoves at Craig's legs until the taller boy shunts over a ways. Tweek flops down beside him, the lengths of their arms and sides pressed together.

It takes all of a second for Craig's bare toes to hone in on the baggy length of Tweek's pajama bottoms, so he can warm them up on his calves.

Much flailing, grunting and tickling ensues, abating only when Tweek's fists are full of Craig's hair and the taller boy is half sprawled on top of him, chilled hands pressed high against Tweek's ribs, beneath his green t-shirt. Their legs are tangled, cold toes forgotten; their kicking was so violent that the blanket that normally lives at the foot of the bed is now in a heap on the floor.

For a long beat of silence, both boys gather themselves, Tweek feeling flushed and breathless and more relaxed than he does with anyone else. Craig's small, crooked smile and pink face is so close that each puff of air from the other boy's mouth fans out across his cheek, and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Tweek isn't sure when it became commonplace for him to see Craig this way, but it's been pretty much half their lives now. At eighteen, they've been 'boyfriends' for eight years. At some point, they were bound to grow comfortable with one another, he supposes. (The fact that it happened after 'dating' for just a handful of months was a huge shock to Tweek. In fact, it's still a surprise now.)

"I didn't, actually. Promise I'd go, I mean," Tweek says, huffing, (mostly because he already knows there's no way he'll get out of it now). As much as Craig's bugging him about going to Token's, the other boy hates big parties too, and they've ditched so many over the years (usually claiming to be out on dates) that their friends have started getting pissed at them. Nowadays, everyone just bribes or threatens Craig until he caves, and then the two of them go through this routine of grumbling and roughhousing and lazing around until the last minute. Inevitably, they turn up rumpled, red cheeked and late. Everyone just assumes they'd been making out or fucking or something, Tweek supposes.

His fingers clench a little harder in Craig's hair at the embarrassing thought, and Craig hisses a breath.

"Shit dude, that's still attached to my head, you know," he says, sliding one hand out from under Tweek's top (Tweek's stomach does some weird twitchy thing as Craig's fingertips skate over it), and gently tugs the shorter boy's fingers free. Then his hand is on the pillow beside his head, Craig's grip encircling his wrist, and they're staring at each other again. From this close, he can see every nuance, every fleck of silver in his eyes, every long eyelash and freckle and imperfection. Tweek is hyperaware of their breathing, and his heartbeat, and the warmth and weight of Craig's body on his—

And then, like a hundred other times over the last eight years, Craig blinks and the moment is over. Unlike when they'd been younger and they'd scrambled away from one another, embarrassed and awkward and unsure of their own weird pseudo-relationship, now Craig just lays his cheek down on Tweek's shoulder. The press of a long nose against his throat and lips a hairs width from his skin sets Tweek's nerves on fire.

They stay like that for so long, the light outside the window starts to fade, and Tweek finds himself wondering if maybe Craig's fallen asleep. Perhaps they won't have to go to the damn party—

"Please, babe?" Craig says, and his voice is little more than a mumble against his neck; he shivers. "Token'll kill me. We didn't go last Christmas, and you know he was a pain in my ass right up 'til summer vacation."

Gulping, Tweek runs the fingers of his free hand through Craig's hair so that he can avoid replying for a little longer. It's soft, slipping through his fingertips without a single tangle catching; when Tweek turns his head just slightly, he gets a waft of citrus shampoo and cigarette smoke. Craig waits silently, doesn't bother pushing Tweek for a response – knows him well enough to give him the chance to think.

"What's in it for me, huh?" Tweek finally asks, his voice equally quiet.

"I'll let you hog the covers for the next month, and I won't complain once," Craig says instantly, the barest teasing inflection in his voice.

The blonde snorts. "Weak, Tucker. We don't even share a bed when we crash at mine." His parents still won't let them. Not like they need to worry about anything ever happening.

Craig pulls himself up onto his elbows. "What're we doing now then, huh?" The hand still under Tweek's top moves, the pad of Craig's thumb accidentally brushing over his nipple.

A shock jolts through him.

Tweek squawks, flails, elbows Craig in the side of the head and falls off the bed.

There's a beat of silence before Craig peers over the edge, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Tweek gives his pseudo-boyfriend precisely three seconds to enjoy his brief victory.

The scuffle that follows wastes another nice chunk of time.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: so... thanks to the response to _Unresolved_ (especially over on AO3), you guys are getting this chapter way sooner than I'd expected to post it! Enjoy. :))

...

 _Unresolved_

2

...

By the time they get out of the house, the sun has long since set, and the already crisp air has plummeted well below any kind of reasonable level (even for South Park). Just stepping down from the porch has Tweek shivering.

It's the last weekend of the winter holidays before school is back in, so Token's annual Christmas house party is likely to be in full swing already. Tweek's not sure where Token's parents go every year, or how he keeps managing to convince them to let him throw parties when the place gets repeatedly trashed, but it's always the same. Everyone arrives early, everyone gets drunk and/or high before the street lights even get switched on, everyone gets so loud it's a wonder that the police don't turn up, and everyone says or does stupid shit they regret the following morning.

Well, everyone apart from Tweek – he's not really one for drinking in large groups. Mostly he leaves that to Clyde, Stan and Cartman. He and Craig hang around for a little, Craig maybe drinks a beer or two, or plays some beer pong, and then inevitably gets sleepy, so they go back home early.

Alternatively they share a joint with Kenny and Kyle, and Craig gets sleepy, and then, excitingly enough, they head home early.

Sometimes though, just to mix things up, they do neither of the above. Instead they just sit, chat and avoid the makeshift dancefloor. Craig gets sleepy after a few hours and, feeling wild, they walk home early.

Really, anything can happen at Token's.

Tweek snorts at his thoughts and noses his way deeper into the scratchy woolen scarf his mom knitted him a few years back. Even so, white clouds of breath gather in the air in front of him as they walk down the drive and set off up the street for Dark Meadows Mansion.

New Years had been a few days earlier. Tweek and Craig had spent it doing a Hitchcock movie marathon, lazing around on the couch in the Tweak family living room and drinking their body weight in black coffee. When the clocks had struck midnight, they'd fist-bumped, clacked mugs together, and flipped each other the bird. They hadn't gotten to bed until around seven in the morning; as Tweek's parents were at a New Years party somewhere else in town, they'd shuffled woozily up the stairs, flopped down on Tweek's bed together, and had slept for a solid twelve hours. It was amazing.

Despite the fact that Christmas had been over a week ago, every house down the length of the street is still strung up with obnoxiously bright lights and decorations. Almost every house they pass inflatable santas, or glowing reindeers stuck to the roof, or brightly clashing neon lights. One house they pass has a particularly memorable light pasted across the entirety of the second floor, of Santa looking up Mrs Claus' skirt. This doesn't make Tweek laugh. He hates the winter holidays for this alone: flashing lights and dumb decorations make him twitchy and anxious. (He remembers with no small amount of bitterness, the year he and Craig 'got together', and all the creepy artwork that had circulated. He'd had to draw the line at his dad painting their likeness on the wall in Tweek Bros.)

Craig slings an arm around his shoulders as they walk, and Tweek is grateful for the distraction; he's never really figured out whether or not Craig does this sort of thing specifically to help calm Tweek down or simply because they've gotten used to the constant public displays of affection. Either way, it's appreciated.

They only have to walk five minutes before they hear the deep, booming bass and the tinny rattle of music blaring out from Token's house. Craig huffs something caught between a sigh and a laugh. Tweek just twitches.

By the time that they reach the Manor and shout their names to the man guarding the gate so he can check them off the list, Tweek's nervousness has escalated to full out spasms. Even with Craig's arm pinning him against his side, the shorter boy almost falls over face first on the icy driveway.

Jesus fucking Christ, do they have to play the music so loud? This is just obnoxious.

"I wanna get coffee," he yells over the music, even though he's barely a foot away from Craig's face.

"What?" Craig replies, and Tweek feels like punching him in the arm. There is _no way_ that Craig didn't hear what he said.

He leans in closer, mouth to ear, and positively bellows, "Coffee!"

If the way that Craig rubs the side of his head is anything to go by, then he might have been a little _too_ noisy. Oh well. He doesn't have time to think on that further, as he's already ducking out from under Craig's arm. Slipping around chatting groups of people he doesn't spare a second glance, his shoulders hunch up and his hands clutch into fists at his sides. Tweek doesn't do touching with anyone that aren't his parents or Craig, and every small brush of fabric adds to his discomfort.

By the time he's made it to the kitchen, he's already had to avoid Bill and Fosse, Nichole, Annie and Red, and Kevin Stoley (who is, incidentally, donned in full Star Wars regalia - blue lightsaber, Anakin rattail and all). He's also just about ready to curl up in a corner and cry.

Instead, he shoves his way to the front of the booze counter (strewn with at least a dozen different types of hard liquors, boxed wines and six-packs of beers) and scrabbles for the handle of the cupboard overhead. After safely grabbing onto a large, grey-blue mug, which kind of reminds him of Craig's eyes, he makes a beeline for the kettle.

Speaking of the devil, Craig is waiting for him there, having apparently already filled it up and flipped the switch to boil.

"Best. Boyfriend. Ever," Tweek gushes, setting the cup down on the side with a loud cl-clunk, and running his hands over his face.

Apparently Craig understood the sentiment, even if he didn't catch the words, because the haughty arch of his eyebrow says it all.

 _Smug dick_ , Tweek thinks, even as he helps himself to the instant coffee granules from the shelf, and the milk from the fridge on the other side of Craig.

They stand together in silence, Tweek hunkered over his drink and Craig leaning against the counter and calmly studying the ceiling. Between greedy gulps, Tweek takes stock of everyone in the room properly for the first time. There's a bunch of Junior year boys hanging around in front of the snacks table, casually trying to check out the ex-Raisins girls that are gathered in the doorway to the dining room. Currently getting themselves drinks are some kids he doesn't recognize from their own year group. One of them is drinking straight from a bottle of vodka. Tweek gives him an hour before he's throwing up into a flowerpot, or curled up under the coats in the cloakroom. He debates sharing the wry thought with Craig, but that would require prying his mouth away from the cup. No, thank you.

It takes a good mug and a half, greedily gulped down, before he's willing to share it with the boy beside him, and only once Craig makes them a third does Tweek let his pseudo-boyfriend take his hand and draw him back out of the kitchen. It doesn't escape Tweek's notice that Craig somehow filches an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel's on the way.

He blinks at the sight of the bottle clutched in Craig's other hand, wonders if he's gone crazy. Still, he allows himself to be maneuvered through the huge house without asking the taller boy anything. Craig doesn't drink that much at big parties; he must have run into someone in the hallway, before he caught up to Tweek.

They double back on themselves briefly in order to dump their coats and scarves down in the temporary cloakroom (the study closest to the front door). The wide, dark wood desk is already buried beneath the mass of material, as are the desk chair, the chest, the side tables and the majority of the floor. Just how many people are here already?

By the time they make it up the stairs, Tweek is wishing he'd just brought the whole damn kettle with him. The staircase is crowded, the landing and every one of the guest rooms they pass are already heaving; Tweek somehow doubts they'll ever manage to find some peaceful corner to sit down in.

When they reach Token's room, squinting in the much brighter lighting, it's a relief to see their usual gang lazing around the place. Token raises a hand in greeting from a bean bag in front of his huge HD television; Clyde, Kenny and Jimmy are sprawled out on Token's bed, intently studying some shitty, prehistoric copy of Playboy; Butters is texting from the foot of the bed and sipping on a packet of frozen Piña Colada; Cartman and Kyle appear to be playing an aggressive game of Bullshit and Stan is taking long, greedy gulps of his bottle of Captain Morgan between laying down his rounds of cards.

The tops of the dresser and the windowsill are laden with bowls of chips and dips, variety packets of candy, plates of cookies and several bottles of everything from cider to champagne. Tweek would be horrified by the showy display of wealth if it were anyone but Token, who tends to be so blissfully ignorant of his privileged upbringing that it's generally just considered another odd character quirk.

Tweek lets go of Craig's hand long enough to slam the door shut behind them, and the sound beyond it cuts off.

Oh, thank all fuck for soundproofing. He is now slightly less likely to end the night with a nervous breakdown.

"Jesus Christ, Token," he says, voice high and grating. "How many fucking people did you have to invite?"

"Don't be a downer, dude," Clyde pipes up.

Tweek shoots him the dirtiest glare in his arsenal, but it's no use; the brunet hasn't looked up even once since they came in. Apparently whatever bush is in the '85 Summer Edition (he imagines it's something monstrous and permed, just like whatever is on the model's head) is just too captivating to look up from. Fucking gross.

"It's our last Christmas party before we graduate, I had to make it a good one." Token shrugs, smiles and waves a hand towards the cushions strewn across the rug near to the door, surrounding the one remaining bean bag.

Craig takes a few easy strides into the room and sinks into the seat, and Tweek follows suit, clutching his mug with two hands (his caffeine jitters have kicked in now – or, wait, maybe that's just the anxiety?) and plopping himself down on the floor beside his pseudo-boyfriend, his back against the wall.

"What's on the agenda tonight, then?" Craig says in a drawl, plucking Tweek's cup out of his hands when it's halfway to his mouth and easily ignoring the squawk of protest.

Feeling like he's just been betrayed, Tweek watches Craig settle the cup between his thighs, uncapping the Jack Daniel's and sloshing a generous portion inside.

"You _dick_ ," he whines, even as the cup's handed back to him. After an experimental sniff, he grimaces down at the offending liquid, and is almost ready to fly out of the room in search of more _actual_ coffee, when Craig settles a hand against the back of his neck. Despite himself, he stills. Doesn't take even a sip, though.

"I was thinking maybe an old-school game to get us going," Token says. Tweek glances up to find him watching their interaction, the corner of his mouth kicked up in amusement.

So he scowls at Token instead.

"Ooh, neato! You mean like spin the bottle, huh?"

"No Butters, you gaywad," Cartman cuts in. "Everyone knows spin the bottle is for thirteen year old girls and fags." And then as an afterthought aimed in their general direction, "Sorry dudes."

"Whatever." Tweek can practically _feel_ Craig roll his eyes.

"Three eights."

"Bullshit, Fatass."

"Fuck you, Jew." Cartman gathers up the generous pile of cards.

"What I meant," Token says, "was—"

"Strip poker," Kenny suggests. "Seven minutes of heaven. Never have I ever."

"Kenny, dude, why the fuck would any of us want to play those games with you?" says Stan, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and setting the bottle aside in order to lay down two cards. "Two fives."

"Bullshit."

"Goddamn it, man, how'd you know every time?"

"I told you, it's ancient Jew magic. He uses it to see into our minds and cheat on the game, cause Jews have no common freakin' decency."

"I swear to God, you fat turd—"

"Truth or dare!" Token shouts, before things have the chance to rapidly devolve into a fistfight, the way that they usually do when Cartman and Kyle are in the same room. "I thought we could play truth or dare."

There's a moment of silence. Tweek notices that even Clyde manages to peel his eyes away from the Playboy mag just long enough to curl his lip at the prospect.

"Dude. Lame."

"Y-yeah. No offense Token, bu-b-but that idea's pretty r-r-retarded."

Tweek can't help but agree. He doesn't think that he's ever played Truth or Dare, and he isn't sure he wants to start now. It's the kind of thing middle school girls play at sleep overs.

Yet another surprise comes, though, when Craig snorts a laugh. "You guys are such fucking pussies."

"Hey, yeah," says Butters, clearly still put out at having his idea shot down a moment earlier. "You're just a whole load of… of sour apples! We could get into all kinds of fun."

 _And a whole shitload of trouble too_ , thinks Tweek, who would be more than happy to call it a night already. He doesn't need any help making a twat of himself.

"Fucking hell, keep your boner in your pants, dude," Cartman says to Butters.

"Well, I'm up for it. Anything to stop this shitty game. S'not like either of us are gonna win anyway."

Kyle pulls a face at his best friend.

"Sorry dude, it's just not fun losing to you ten times in a row. Besides, think of all the shit you could make Cartman do on your turns."

"Let's do it," Kyle says immediately.

"Aye!"

"I'm down for it. Sounds damn sweet to me," says Kenny.

One by one, all of the boys concede. Well, apart from Tweek, who sits there feeling jittery and unhappy. This sentiment is only made worse when he takes a large mouthful of his drink, forgetting that it's been liberally spiked, and struggles to swallow.

Craig's thumb strokes against the base of his neck, and a shiver rolls all the way down his spine.

Tweek meets hooded blue eyes and, unsure why he does it, takes another slow, deliberate sip of the abomination.

The other boy's eyebrow quirks just slightly, expression otherwise unchanging, but Tweek figures he did the right thing.

Craig begins to card his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck; the blonde gulps, trying to ignore the goosebumps that have broken out across his arms.

Something in the way that Craig is looking at him makes his mouth go dry.

...

A/N: fancy sharing your thoughts?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: thanks again to everyone who reviewed last chapter! You guys are the best. :))

...

 _Unresolved_

3

...

After another half hour of everyone fucking around (Tweek has the shortlived hope that maybe this dumb game'll be forgotten), Kenny comes up with some rules to get them going.

Every time someone completes a dare, everyone takes a shot; every time anyone answers a truth, the whole group takes _two_ , (seeing as nobody's going to willingly request truths without a little extra motivation. Getting the rest of the group shitfaced might encourage them, apparently. Tweek has no idea why). If the person given the truth or dare fails or refuses, then they have to drink three shots. They're all still scarily sober, considering it's already approaching ten (aside from Stan, who looks like he's been at least a little drunk since the middle of last week), and this should be a quick enough way to change that.

After Cartman gets up to waddle over to the food for a light snack of everything he can fit into his arms, the game begins.

"Clyde." Token starts in on the least enthusiastic member of the group (next to Tweek, that is. The only difference being that Tweek keeps his mouth shut about it and isn't bitching every two minutes). " Truth or dare?"

"Aw man, why's it me? Choose someone else, you asshole." The two have some kind of staring contest or silent conversation, or something. Clyde caves. "Fine. Dare."

The other boy barely takes a second to think it over. "Borrow Kenny's lighter to set that shit on fire." He waves a hand at Playboy '85.

"Hey, weak man. Pass."

Token shrugs. "Do three shots then."

After much complaining (at first from Clyde, and then from everyone else when he doesn't hurry the fuck up), he eventually throws back a round of spluttering gulps from the flask Kenny pulls out of his parker. "Dude, what the fuck's even in there? Sick!"

Kenny just laughs. It's the sort of laugh that makes Tweek uneasy.

While Clyde's still recovering, Kyle – who's next in the makeshift circle – turns to Cartman. "Truth or dare, Fatass?"

Cartman's eyes narrow to slits. Tweek watches in fascination as, growing several shades redder than is healthy, the brunet eventually says, "Truth," like it physically hurts him.

"Is it true Heidi broke up with you _again_ because she caught you fucking one of your mom's pies?"

"Aye, you shut your goddamn Jew mouth! That's a vicious rumor and a lie; I broke up with _her_ because she just wasn't woman enough for me. I like my bitches to have tits, know what I'm saying?"

"So it wasn't because she found all the weird ass sex toys you borrow from your mom?"

"I swear to God, Kyle, I will punch you so fucking hard your face'll cave in." If Cartman was red before, then now he's turned purple. He looks like he may actually explode. Tweek wonders if he ought to shuffle further away, just in case. He doesn't want to get brain goop in his hair.

Kyle continues. "So it's not because she saw your internet history and figured that you've got a thing for taking it up the ass?"

Tweek chokes on his drink, feeling himself growing hot when Craig's hand, having been idly playing with the hair on the base of his neck, goes still. They're both used to gay jokes being thrown around, but…

Something's off between them tonight. Something's off, and Tweek can't for the life of him figure out what it is.

After Stan, Butters and Kenny have managed to pull Cartman and Kyle off of each other (the former with a bloody nose and the latter a nasty smirk), the game eventually resumes.

Stan dares Kenny go retrieve a bra from Mercedes or Porsche. When Kenny returns with not one bra but both, and the girls too, he's greeted with a loud cheer and several rounds of celebratory shots. Tweek drinks just the one gulp, and still can't help his grimacing. At least his eyes aren't watering anymore.

On Cartman's go, he asks Kyle if he's ever jacked it to the thought of one of the guys in the room. His shit-eating grin clearly states that he thinks Kyle will get angry and defensive, or that he'll refuse to answer. Instead, Kyle just shrugs and answers, "Duh."

A round of jeering, cheering and laugher follows, leud comments and shocked questions being thrown across the room. Kyle looks mostly unruffled, though his cheeks are pink.

Tweek's are, too. Does this mean Kyle's gay? Or is it normal for straight guys to think about sex with each other? It's not something _he_ makes a habit of thinking about too much.

After they all take their shots (Tweek's starting to get used to the abomination he's drinking, which is a shame as it's running pretty low), it's Craig's turn.

The blond finds himself weirdly nervous, half expecting Craig to turn his attention on him. He's given only a brief moment to panic over whether or not he should choose Truth or Dare, when Craig calls out Butters instead.

Tweek breathes a sigh of relief.

"Read out the last five texts you got, and your replies," he dares.

It turns out that three of the five texts are from Butters' parents, telling him to be home by his curfew (else he'll be grounded) and about how he'd better not forget to pick up Grandma's prescription of steroid cream after class on Tuesday (or there'll be heck to pay). The last two are both from some guy called Brad or Bucky or something, but Tweek's too busy leaning into Craig's bean bag and turning to goo under his stroking fingers, to pay attention. If anyone else tried to touch his hair, he thinks, he'd freak out.

He doesn't realize it's his turn until Craig pauses his quiet ministrations and pokes him in the shoulder instead.

"Ach," Tweek protests, face scrunching up as he turns to study the room. Craig's hand returns to what it was doing; Tweek is instantly distracted again. "Ugh, jeez, I dunno. Porsche, I guess?"

"Sweet," the girl says, twizzling a lock of hair around her finger and smiling so vaguely that Tweek's got to wonder if there's actually anything but air in her head. She's tucked under Kenny's arm where he leans back against the headboard, one of the bras (a very pink, very lacy one) tied around his head like Mickey Mouse ears. "Um… Dare please, cutie."

"Aw, Jesus Christ, okay…" He looks around the room trying desperately to think of something good (tries his best to ignore how almost every boy is buzzing with excitement at the prospect of getting dared to do something with her). His eyes land on a pack of candies sitting in Cartman's lap. "See how many marshmallows you can fit in your mouth?"

There is much disappointed groaning, until she gets up to retrieve the packet and starts sucking them into her mouth with blatantly lascivious _pop_ s and _schlurp_ s, her cheeks puffing out so much that she kind of resembles Stripe, Craig's last guinea pig.

Turns out that she can fit _a lot_ in there.

She's well past ten when she gives up, face bulging, Tweek thinks he'd rather have had all of his teeth pulled without anaesthetic. Practically regurgitating them back up into the pack, Porsche wipes the trail of dribble off her chin – vague smile still in place. There's pretty much a standing ovation from the guys in the room.

He makes a face up at Craig, whose eyes crinkle in amusement.

And so the game goes on, everyone growing steadily drunker with each round. Tweek isn't called on to do anything more exciting than fifty star jumps. He ends up gasping and wobbly, and doesn't question it when Craig, bright eyed and even a little smiley despite the fact they're in company, pulls him down onto his lap. He's long and lanky and all bones, but Tweek finds comfort in the warmth, and leans into Craig's side. Now his mug's empty, he moves on to sharing Craig's bottle, and helps himself to sips between rounds.

All the dares grow progressively worse, from Token getting 'Roll topless in the snow' and Jimmy being called out to, 'Go through the living room and give everyone a strip tease', to Clyde being dared, 'Streak all the way to City Wok and back'.

There are also an unfortunate amount of truths being called.

Mercedes admits to having lost her virginity in the back of the movie theatre, aged fourteen, in a late night rerun of one of the _Deadpool_ movies. (Craig leans in, making a wry comment about the fact that, "At least getting fucked while watching Ryan Reynolds mess shit up means she's got _some_ good taste." Tweek has to fight down a shocked snicker and a burning blush. There's something in the way Craig says the word 'fucked' that makes his stomach flop.)

Kenny openly confesses to having wanked under the table in Chem Lab, on the coach during a class trip to Denver in their freshman year, and in the Teacher's Lounge after hours. ("Right into Mister Elton's favorite mug," he exclaims proudly. There's a mixture of delighted whooping and disgusted groans.)

Stan gets asked what the worst thing he's done while drunk is, and after a long, awkward look at Kyle, says some shit about passing out in a bush. Everyone in the room calls bullshit on the story – which is a blatant lie, no matter how anyone looks at it. Stan's one of the hardest drinkers in South Park next to Kenny (and his dad, Randy), and he's almost always getting caught doing dumb shit. (Just before last term ended, Stan came to class three hours late, off his head drunk, and pissed into some sophomore girl's locker because he, "Couldn't find the restroom.") When he refuses to correct his lie he ends up taking a forfeit, and has to down half his drink.

By the time everyone's well and truly pissed, their game has somehow gained about twenty more people; Token's room, however large, is feeling a pretty damn cramped.

The cushions on the floor are all taken up, and there are eight people on the bed, in total. The volume of the music downstairs has been lowered a ways, which is probably a good thing, considering they wouldn't have been able to close the door even if they'd wanted to.

It's okay though, Tweek thinks. He's still curled up on Craig's lap, head against a rather bony shoulder and eyes at half-mast. The blonde's pretty sure he's smiling like a fool, even though his breathing is weird and there's a heat gathered low in his belly that makes no sense at all to his fuzzy brain.

Craig's hand has moved at some point during the game so that he's holding Tweek against him by his hip, and he's drawing lazy patterns on the skin just beneath his t-shirt. The blond can't help but squirm at the ticklish sensation.

It's comical, he thinks, how often Craig's hands have been up his top today. A breathy chuckle escapes him before he can slap his palm over his mouth, and Craig has to steady the almost empty bottle of Jack Tweek's holding onto in the process. Craig's fingers are overlapping his around the neck of the bottle, and Tweek can't draw his eyes away.

Craig's such a good friend, isn't he? The best of friends.

He stifles another nonsensical giggle, a task that is almost impossible, until Craig's ducking his head, lips against Tweek's ear and hot breath fanning out over him in a way that sets all of his nerves alight.

"What's so funny?" he says, just loud enough for Tweek to hear, and Tweek shifts again as the heat in his belly turns up a notch. If he weren't so drunk, he's fairly sure he'd be feeling all awkward right now.

As it is, he finds himself leaning more heavily into the taller boy, breath hitching and voice getting stuck somewhere on the back of his tongue when Craig ducks his head, nose tracing across the skin directly below his ear.

He swallows hard. Sucks in a deep breath. Opens his mouth to reply—

"Dude, Craig, truth or dare?" Clyde yells.

Both boys jump like they've been hit with a hundred volts, leftover whiskey sloshing noisily in the bottle and attention drawn back to the room at large. Almost everyone's looking at them.

Clyde's frowning from the bed. He seems kind of pissed. "You done climbing all over each other yet? We're not in a freakin' gay porno, you know."

Craig lets go of the Jack Daniels in order to flip Clyde off. "Shame, that," he says, voice back to his usual monotone.

Tweek bites the inside of his cheek, caught somewhere between humiliation, confusion and hysteria. He wonders if he's gonna spend the whole damn night flustered and giggly.

"Well then?" the brunet asks, voice so whiney it grates on Tweek's nerves. "Come on, dude. Don't make me ask a third time."

"Will it shut you the fuck up if I say dare?"

Clyde grins the kind of grin that makes him look like a piranha. "Make out with someone," he says slowly, and then has to wait until all the cheering and guffawing dies down again, one hand aloft in the air to catch everyone's attention. "There's a catch."

Tweek's heart hammers hard against his chest. Craig, kissing someone? The warmth in the pit of his stomach is turning to lead.

"It's gotta be someone you've never kissed before."

The words aren't processing in Tweek's head. Someone he's never…? _Has_ Craig kissed anyone before? They've been 'boyfriends' since they were in fourth grade – Tweek's certainly never had the chance to kiss anyone. No, he thinks. He knows Craig better than anyone. His pseudo-boyfriend isn't _interested_ in doing that sort of thing—

"Fine," Craig says.

Wait, he _wants_ to kiss someone? But… they'd been having a good time, hadn't they? He stares down at his hands for a long moment, surprised to find them shaking. There's a pounding in his ears that he recognizes as his heartbeat; his chest is tight around the sensation.

Tweek has an unfortunate realization. Oh Jesus, he's going to start blubbing right here in front of _everyone_.

Instead of analyzing his feelings, he scrambles to get off of Craig's lap, cheeks burning and eyes starting to sting. "Jeez, I-I'll just get up then—"

Only problem is, Craig's still holding onto his hip, gripping him so tight he just knows he'll have bruises there tomorrow. "What? Where're you going?"

"You wanna make out with someone for a dare? Fine, whatever man. Be my guest." Tweek flails, still trying to get away, and Craig grunts as the bottle collides with his shoulder hard enough that all of what's left splashes down his front.

"Ow, _fuck_ dude," Craig says, wrenching the bottle out of Tweek's hands and thrusting it blindly at some kid sat at their feet.

Apparently the kid takes it, because a moment later Craig's hand is hooked in the hair behind Tweek's head. He's pulling the blonde boy's face towards him, and Tweek can't do anything but reel.

When their mouths meet, it's nothing more than a firm press. He has the shortest moment to notice that Craig's lips are dry and slightly chapped, before—

before Craig's eyes slip shut, and his head tilts. The hand in Tweek's hair slips forwards, running over his neck until it cups his jaw in his palm. Tweek stares at long, black eyelashes and the faint dusting of freckles on Craig's nose, as Craig's mouth moves against his.

A jolt of something hot and primal zaps through his nerve endings, and the heat softens the lead in the pit of his belly. His heart doesn't stop it's erratic pounding.

This… this feels _right_.

The rest of the room (gleeful hooting, sounds of onjection and all) fades into insignificance as he melts against the other boy, tentatively, clumsily responding to Craig's ministrations. He isn't sure how long the soft, shy kiss goes on for, but somewhere along the way, it starts to change.

The other boy shifts, nose pressing against Tweek's cheek, and Tweek has to catch the surprised sound that tries to slip from him when Craig opens his mouth just enough to suck on his lower lip until it tingles. The tongue that follows, running over the sensitive flesh as if to soothe it, sends another shock through the blond. He pulls away, eyes wide and breath unsteady. Tweek's hands clutch at the front of Craig's t-shirt, though he has no idea when they got there.

The dark haired boy looks right back at him, eyes hooded and pink lips parted. All Tweek can do is stare as Craig's brows draw together, blue eyes flickering over Tweek's face like he's searching for something.

 _Oh, God_.

Tweek doesn't want to let him work out if it's there or not – doesn't want the moment to end – and so instead he surges forwards, capturing Craig's mouth in a kiss much harder than the last.

He mimics the way Craig ran his tongue along his lower lip, bravado in the face of his nerves. He isn't given the chance to regret his decision; the other boy makes a quick grunt of surprise in the back of his throat, but doesn't hesitate in meeting Tweek with equal enthusiasm.

When their tongues brush, Tweek's breath hitches and his toes curl in his shoes. But this time he doesn't freak out and try to pull away – he leans in, bracing his hands against Craig's chest despite the awkward angle.

Craig's tongue pushes it's way into Tweek's mouth, tracing along his teeth and other the roof of his mouth. He's wet and warm and tastes like whiskey, and Tweek feels like his brain is short-circuiting.

He makes a noise of encouragement when Craig pulls back and nips his lip, his fingers convulsing against the collar of his top. The hand on his hip tightens briefly in response, before slipping around to the small of his back, and urging him to shift his position. The blonde acquiesces, pulling back from Craig just long enough to sit up straight, swing one of his legs over to straddle Craig's lap.

Fuck, he wants _more_. Wants Craig, _wants wants wants—_

The taller boy barely gives him long enough to sit his weight down on his thighs, before he's tugging Tweek back down again.

Their mouths clash together, teeth clicking, pulling each other impossibly closer, heat and pressure and so right it _hurts_ —

"—mean fucking hell, dudes, get a room!"

Tweek's eyes fly open. Freezes. Draws away a little.

Blue eyes stare back, about and inch from his.

Someone is making a fuss – several 'someone's, in fact – behind them; beyond them.

He struggles through the haze of alcohol and desire. Easier said than done when the body beneath him shifts, setting his nerves alight because – _oh God, oh Jesus Christ_ – he's hard.

And his very first kiss almost turned into a public dry humping session.

Making a startled sound somewhere close to, " _Nnyuurgh,_ " he scrambles back so fast that he falls straight off of Craig's lap and onto the feet of the kid stretched out in front of their beanbag.

The kid swears loudly, shoving at him, and people around them are taunting, whistling, laughing about what an idiot he's made of himself.

His face burns so hot his eyes water.

It's all that he can do to struggle to his feet and run from the room.

Barging past the group clustered in the doorway, he ignores Craig calling out for him to wait over the angry shouting of those he shoved past, and bass thrum of music downstairs.

He makes a beeline for the closest bathroom.

...

A/N: so... what'd you think?


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: thank you guys for the continued support!

...

 _Unresolved_

4

...

The bathroom, it turns out, is not empty. There's a couple getting handsy in the tub, and Pip Pirrup is babbling heavily accented nonsense in between hurling into the toilet.

Tweek, quickly reaching his wits end, makes a sound like someone's set his hair on fire and spins, continuing down the hall as fast as wobbly legs will take him. Thankfully, due to the immense humiliation and stress, certain areas of his anatomy that were rising to attention just moments ago have once again retreated.

That doesn't stop the shame, though. Jesus Christ, what had he been _thinking_?

In the same manner that he burst into the bathroom, he approaches a closet, a couple of guest bedrooms and another study. All packed with writhing bodies, shouting voices and the stink of spilt alcohol and sweat. Each new room intensifies the sting of tears in Tweek's eyes, and by the seventh door he's slammed shut in failure, he's barely holding back a wail.

 _Fine_ , he thinks. Fine, he doesn't need to be here anyway. He should take this as a sign from some shitty, cruel higher power that he ought to go home and try smothering himself with a pillow.

He's halfway down the stairs, gripping onto the banister rail to save himself from falling face first to his death (not like that'd be such a shame, but he does think it'd maybe put a damper on the party), when warm fingers wrap around his wrist.

" _Jesus fucking wept_!" He screams, flails, and nearly topples right over the railing in his bid for freedom. It's only a second hand pressing into his belly and hauling him back against a firm chest that stops him.

"Tweek, babe, calm down!" The scent of whiskey and tobacco accompanies the familiar voice.

Gasping for breath but instinctively relaxing against Craig's chest, Tweek reaches back with one hand and slaps his palm against his pseudo-boyfriend's shoulder. Ignoring the surprised grunt, he let's Craig guide him backwards, until they're sat together on one of the steps, back to chest and Tweek perched between Craig's thighs. "You douchebag! I think I had a fucking heart attack, man!" His words are slurred, but he's at least aware enough to hear it.

"Sorry, sorry," Craig sounds like he's choked up somewhere between laughter and worry. "I called, but you didn't seem to hear me."

Turning around to glare at Craig, he says, "And you couldn't have, I dunno, maybe not have grabbed me _on the stairs_?" He thinks about going on, about highlighting the national average of how many accidents happen on an annual basis on staircases (he's got the rather alarming ability to recite all kinds of nasty, bizarre statistics), when his eyes slip down to Craig's lips. They're pink and damp and all Tweek can think about is—

A garbled sound of panic (maybe some kind of apology) is halfway out of his mouth and he's jerking back around when Craig's hand settles against his face and stills him. The air between them is warm with their mingling breath, and Tweek can't bring himself to meet Craig's gaze.

A thumb brushes just under his eye. "Dude, were you crying?" The dark haired boy's voice has raised an octave, and the fingers threading through the hair at his temples tightens a little. "What's wrong?"

For someone so damn smart, sometimes Craig is an absolute idiot. The _kiss_ was wrong – Tweek acting like an idiot and _kissing him_ was wrong. "N-nothing," he says, frazzled. His cheeks are burning and his nose tingling and he can't help the fluttering in his stomach as Craig leans further into his space. (And when did he think of it as 'his'? They've always shared everything.) "Nothing's wrong, I was just getting stressed 'cause of the noise."

Craig doesn't look convinced, but drops it. Apparently knows better to press for a reason. "Wanna go outside, get some fresh air?" he says instead.

All Tweek can do is nod emphatically, wild blonde hair bobbing and chin dislodged from Craig's fingers.

They clamber to their feet (note: Craig practically has to hoist Tweek up by his armpits. Apparently when he drinks too much, his coordination's worth jack shit), and Craig leads the way down.

His hand remains pressed against Tweek's back, and the fluttering in his stomach doesn't stop.

Retrieving their coats and scarves from the cloakroom (Craig has to clamber elbow-deep into the pile on the desk just to find their things; Tweek remains propped up on the door frame), they eventually stumble out of the front door.

It's quieter out here, and for the most part the garden is empty. There's a group of goth kids stood in a cluster of bushes smoking joints and drinking something that looks suspiciously like Moonshine, but Tweek is too far away to make it out, and he can't bring himself to care. He's feeling too jittery.

The air is still and sharp, and something about it settles over him - the quiet, breathless disconnect from the heat and light and noise inside. It's like the world has been put on pause.

Tweek's head swims, and he sways with it.

Craig distracts him by knitting their fingers together and leading him down the porch steps, off to one side of the garden path. They crunch through the thick snow to duck under the eaves of a large oak tree, and Tweek takes his chance to pull away from the other boy, leaning against the rough bark of the tree trunk instead.

He watches his pseudo-boyfriend reaching into his jacket pocket and retrieving his pack of American Spirits. His hands aren't shaking like Tweek's are, and he doesn't seem to care at all about what happened inside, or the fact that Tweek's upset. Doesn't seem to care about the hurt and humiliation bubbling up in his stomach.

"Why'd you have to do that?" he blurts, and his voice is all high and wobbly. He clears his throat and tries again. "Everyone was right there and they were laughing at me and Clyde was being a d-dick and—"

The dark haired boy pauses midway through withdrawing a cigarette – gives Tweek a look he can't decipher. Then he's sliding the cigarette away, flipping the pack shut and pushing it back into his pocket. "Does it matter what anyone else thinks?"

"Of _course_ it matters, dude! I just had my f-first kiss in a room full of drunken dickwads and they all saw and they were— they were _laughing_." The tears start in earnest, and he's scrunching up his nose to stop the sobs that are building in his throat. God, why's he so damn sad? He scrubs his sleeve over his face, thinks maybe he should just let his wobbly knees give way so he's slumped in the snow. Maybe the bite of ice on his skin would cool him down. Maybe Craig wouldn't care if he just curled up and died.

Then there are arms around him, holding him so tight it should hurt, and Craig is pressing his mouth against Tweek's hair. He doesn't resist the urge to wrap his arms around Craig's waist, doesn't have any reservations about burying his cold, tear-streaked face into Craig's neck.

"You're my boyfriend, dude. They don't know we haven't done stuff like that before. They think we're just touchin' 'cause we can't keep our hands off each other, and they're jealous 'cause most of them up there haven't got people to fuck around with."

Tweek leans into him as he talks, and something in Craig's calm, low drawl has the pain in his chest easing, the sobs quieting down to hiccups and sniffles before they've even really started. The other boy runs his hand over Tweek's back, bringing him down out of his spiral. The touch feels good – slow and heavy – even through Tweek's muzzy head.

Once he's calm enough to talk, he mumbles quietly. "You really didn't mind? Y'didn't just do it to get out of drinking the shots?"

Craig pulls back from him, and Tweek takes in the furrowed brow, the flat line of his mouth. "No." He lifts a hand to cup Tweek's cheek, and he can't help but lean into Craig's palm.

"So… _nnngh_ — _why_ , then? Dude, I don't get why anyone'd want to—"

"Can I kiss you?"

Tweek blanches. Blinks hard. Wonders if he's drunker than he'd thought. "W-what?" His voice is a squeak.

"Can I kiss you?" Craig repeats slowly, and for the first time Tweek notices the flush rising in the other boy's cheeks from the cold.

All he can do is nod blankly.

His 'boyfriend' angles Tweek's face up, with the heel of his palm against his jaw. Craig's lips are parted and his gaze is flicking back and forth from his mouth to his eyes, and he's leaning in so slow, Tweek's breath hitches.

This kiss is different from the others.

It's a soft, lingering pressure. A chaste, deliberate touch that has Tweek's eyelids fluttering.

Craig is solid and _real_ and he touches Tweek with no hesitation. He's steady in a way that leaves him breathless, his numb fingers twisting in the back of Craig's jacket as the taller boy tilts his head a little further to one side. The sound of the music and voices inside the house is an echo, far off; a stifled hum in the soles of his shoes.

When the darker haired boy pulls back, Tweek unwillingly opens his eyes. He's still piecing his world back together as Craig starts to speak.

"That should've been it. Not some shitty kids game."

"Huh?"

" _That_ should've been your first kiss." He's drawing the back of his knuckle over Tweek's damp, spiked eyelashes. The downward tilt of his mouth and the tightness around the corners of his eyes say he's unhappy. "I'm sorry I fucked it up, babe. I'm more drunk than I thought."

This is funny, because Craig makes Tweek look like a living, breathing disaster right now. ( _Always_ , in fact.) He swallows, hard. Leans into Craig's chest and lets his eyes drift shut. "I – _nngh_ – don't care," he says, and even though he really _did_ just a few minutes ago, it's true. He's drained, and he's dizzy, and all he wants is to be with Craig. Just Craig – no judging eyes or nasty comments. The rest of the world can go fuck itself, right now. "Take me back to yours, dude?"

"You don't wanna go home, sleep in your own bed?"

He shakes his head. At Craig's, they'll be left alone – allowed to just be together. That's all he wants.

"'Kay, let's go."

They sidestep out from under the low-hanging branches and walk back down the drive, passing the guard at the gate and proceeding across the street. Gravitating towards Craig, Tweek doesn't even notice when his friend wraps an arm around his shoulder and pulls him in close. It's as normal to them both as breathing, and the gesture lulls him into a woozy, peaceful state. His twitching slows and the erratic clamour of his heart continues to even out.

The walk passes in a blur, neither breaking the silence. Tweek thinks that Craig might have pulled his phone out at some point to message someone, but he isn't sure and he doesn't ask. The streets flash and dance around him, and he's beginning to wonder if the walk back was a good idea, so soon after drinking. His feet drag, and Craig moves to accommodate him. Every now and then they stop to gather themselves, leaning on one another until they're steady again.

As the music drifts out of focus, other, quieter noises come to life. A siren trilling in the distance. The croon of pigeons in the bare-branched trees Thrumming of a car engines in the next street over.

Snow begins to fall around them somewhere along the way, and Tweek tips his head back to watch it drift into Craig's hair, like salt sprinkled in black pepper. Wonders where his chullo cap is, and thinks that his ears must be cold. His hair's too short to cover them.

Eventually they get to Craig's house. The lights are off inside, but Craig retrieves the spare key from beneath the doormat and lets them both in. He returns it to its hiding spot right after, and pulls the door shut with a _click_. Before Tweek can sink down onto the floor and work stiff fingers into his shoelaces, Craig pulls him towards the stairs.

"Nguhh, _my shoes_ , man-"

"Don't bother."

If walking in a straight line is hard, then trying to navigate a pitch-black staircase is close to impossible. His legs aren't working properly and more than once, he stumbles - almost loses his footing and yelps. A hand that isn't his covers his mouth.

Craig snorts a quiet laugh, lost in the darkness, and whispers, "Shh, dude, c'mon."

After a brief fumble for the right door handle, they're in. The blonde shuts it as quietly as possible behind them, and squints reflexively when the lights are flicked on. The purple carpet swims, and Tweek keeps one hand planted on the wall so he doesn't fall right into it. As always, his best friend's room is spotless.

Somehow Craig makes it across to the bed without tripping, and sits down on the edge. This is an incredibly impressive feat to Tweek, who has to work up the courage to follow. He puts it off by wriggling his way out of his coat first (almost getting strangled by his scarf), and toeing his shoes off as an afterthought.

When he does cross the room, he only manages it in one go because there are arms reaching out to catch him, and he's pulled down onto the edge of Craig's bed. He flops backwards unceremoniously, shutting his eyes so he doesn't have to watch the lamp waltz across the ceiling. A _fwump_ and dip in the matress tells him Craig's followed, and the pair lie there, floating in the warmth of the room and the weirdness of the night, their legs dangling off the side of the mattress.

Tweek feels kind of... removed from it all now, but that might just be because the walk home through the cold kicked his drunkenness up about five notches... ' _Drunkenness_ '. Hm. Is that even a word? He should make it a word. It should definitely be a thing.

Head lolling to the side, he opens his mouth to share this great idea, when he catches Craig staring at him. Just... staring.

Cheek catching on a tick as he tries to smile, he says, "Jeez, dude, what?"

"Are you angry?" The words hang, heavy, between them.

Struggling to figure out what he's talking about, Tweek reaches out, runs trembling fingers across Craig's forearm, over his jacket sleeve and right down to his hand. He slots their fingers together like pieces in a puzzle and lifts them up into the air to study them – sees Craig watching him, too. "What— what've I gotta be angry about?"

"I kissed you. Like, more than once."

 _Oh_.

"Oh yeah," he says intelligently. "That." They lapse back into silence, hands suspended above them until Tweek's arm gets too heavy. Settling their arms back down between them, Tweek rolls onto his side, so he's facing the other boy completely. They're only a foot apart - this close, Tweek can follow the trail of faint freckles that run over the bridge of Craig's nose. He frowns, struggling to think of why he'd been so upset earlier. "Why'd you do it, man? Kiss me."

The boy's shoulder jerks up. "I wanted to."

 _Oh_.

"Oh." He rubs his cheek against the grain of the blanket, and tries to think about what that implies. It's probably because Tweek's his best friend, and he was an easy way out of the dare, despite what he said before... it's not like he'd do it, otherwise. And the garden? That was just because he felt bad, wasn't it? For taking Tweek's first kiss.

That thought stings. And... yep, there it is. He's remembering why he was upset.

It's not fair that Craig gets to make nasty, dumbass mistakes and then know just the way to calm Tweek down right after. It's not fair that he only kissed him a second time out of pity, and that _that_ was his consolation prize for losing something he hadn't even realised he'd wanted to cherish. It's not like he'd been saving his first kiss for anyone, and he knows it sucks ass that he's still not ever been kissed before now, considering how old he is, but...

He kind of wishes he hadn't had to lose it in such a lame way, with all the dickheads from school leering, joking like it wasn't meant to be a private moment.

 _No_. It's not fair. They're alone now, somewhere familiar and as much a home to him as his own house. He wishes this was where it had happened. Just him and Craig, no dares, no pretences. He wishes he'd done it properly.

Before he even gets the chance to register what he's saying, Tweek's mouth opens of its own accord, blurting out:

"Kiss me, dude. Do it again."

...

A/N: penny for your thoughts?


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: /waggles eyebrows/

...

 _Unresolved_

5

...

 _Kiss me, dude. Do it again."_

Craig blinks. Rolls onto his side, too. "Huh? Now?"

"What, so you- you can't, now? Don't wanna?" Drunk Tweek feels like this night is incredibly unfair. He kind of wants to hit someone. As Craig's the only person nearby (and also the cause of his distress), he shoves the taller boy's shoulder. "Jerk," he says, eyebrows pulling down into a scowl. "Only wanted to 'cause some dumb dare—"

"Tweek—"

"No, y'know what, dude, that's fine. I – _urgh_ – get it." He sniffs, turns his nose up in the air a little to hide the hurt in his eyes. Speaks straight over Craig because he just doesn't want to hear any words of rejection. It was a dumb idea anyway, and this shouldn't mean anything to him. (But it does. Being turned down by Craig would _hurt_. Even for something like this.) "S'not like you'd actually wanna _do_ that shit with me, man. I get it, yeah? Twitchy Tweek, the _fake boyfriend_. Don't have to- to feel bad for not—was stupid to even say _—_ "

The rest of his jumbled rant is cut off by Craig's mouth meeting his. It's a breath of warm air, teeth scraping lightly over his lower lip. It's a gentle suck and a wet stroke of tongue, warmth curling at the seat of his spine.

It lingers.

Even after their mouths part, their foreheads stay together, noses brushing and eyes slipping to half-mast. Tweek reaches his free hand up to Craig's face, just like the other boy kept doing to him all evening. He strokes his fingers over the sharp lines of Craig's cheekbones, drags his thumb over the barely-there stubble on his jaw.

He gulps, searches Craig's expression, still feeling uncertain. "Again?" The word isn't even a whisper.

Craig complies.

This one starts off slow, like the last. Eyes slipping shut, Tweek meets every careful brush of lips with his own, mimicking the slide of Craig's mouth.

For a long time, it stays like that. The sound of shared breath and soft kisses fill the room.

The blonde shifts closer, strokes the silky black hair at the nape of Craig's neck – grazeses the soft skin of his throat with trembling, feather-light touches. A hand settles on his hip, and fingers dip below the hem of his tee to press into his bare side. He squirms. Shifts a leg forward, up onto the bed so his knee presses up against one of Craig's.

They draw to a stop, catching their breath and hovering in place, noses against cheeks and lips so close that when Craig speaks, they brush. "Again?"

" _Mmn_ … again," he agrees.

His mouth is covered almost instantly.

It's different. More pressure. There's another swipe of tongue, and Tweek can't hold back the groan that rises in his chest, lips parting around the sound. Craig leans into the kiss, tilting his head so that the slant of their mouths change. Their tongues brush, and it's _heat._

His hand curls into the hair at the back of the other boy's head, and the response is fingers sliding up his ribs, a firm touch that has him arching, ticklish in a way that he isn't usually _-_ in a way that's _good._ His chest brushes the front of Craig's coat. That hand flexes against his skin, and Craig's pulling away just enough to bite down of Tweek's lip.

Pleasure unfurls in his belly, a feeling he finally recognises.

He whimpers. Loudly.

There's a pause and - _no, no, no_ \- Craig is pulling away. Staring at him with hazy eyes and flushed cheeks and damp, swollen lips. His voice is low and throaty in a way that makes Tweek shiver. "Dude, Tweek, maybe we should— is this a good— we should stop... right?"

No, thinks Tweek. They shouldn't. Not ever. But his brain is fuzzy and he doesn't want to— to, what was it? Doesn't want to force Craig into something he doesn't want. "Only if y'wanna," he says, shifting restlessly.

He watches the bob of Craig's throat. "D'you?"

Shakes his head. "No."

The smile that he gets for that is crooked and fond; so open it makes Tweek's stomach flip. "Thank _fuck_."

Craig drops Tweek's hand, props himself up on his elbow and leans over him as Tweek rolls onto his back, claiming another kiss.

Right from the start, it's different. Hard and hungry and their tongues slide together, and - _oh God_ \- Tweek surges up to return it, slings both arms around Craig's neck to draw him closer. The hand under his tee runs, palm flat, over his ribs and up his chest, right over a nipple.

He arches again, craving more contact, makes a sound of frustration – _what the hell_ \- when Craig pulls away, sits back, unwinds his dangling scarf and shrugs out of his jacket. Both articles fall to the floor, and then he's kicking off his shoes – taking _forever_.

" _Craig._ " His voice is all weird, stuck between a whine and a growl. He clears his throat; throws an arm over his eyes to stop the spinning. His jeans are too tight.

"C'mon, dude, budge over. Can't get under the covers this way."

Rolling, Tweek sits up with another strangled noise of frustration. But Craig doesn't give him long to wait - just hoists his t-shirt up over his head (oh wow, shit, he's seen Craig topless a thousand times before, but—) and tugs the cover back so Tweek can slip in first.

The blonde scrambles under, heart trying to jump out his throat, and fingers clutching at the hem of his tee so he can yank it up over his head. The other boy waits for Tweek to settle down, head on the pillow, before shuffling in next to him. The way his eyes run over Tweek's chest and flat stomach has him covering his face with the back of his arms again. "Dude, _stop_."

A huff of quiet laughter. "Sorry, I just—" He gently tugs at Tweeks wrists until the blonde's staring him in the eyes. "Babe, you're..." He gestures towards Tweek's chest, and makes a noise that's... good? Bad? Honestly, Tweek's not sure. He's just embarrassed and turned on and too drunk for this crap. "Can I kiss you?"

"Jesus fucking Christ, Craig, _yes_." _Get on with it_ , he wants to yell.

And, thank fuck, he _does_. Finally.

What starts as slow pecks quickly devolves into hot, open-mouthed kisses and hands running up arms, over shoulders, across necks. At some point Craig ends up pressing his weight down on Tweek and – _oh God_ – sweet friction.

He moans into Craig's mouth; shifts his legs so the other boy's between them; runs fluttery, uncertain hands over every inch he inch reach. When their bare chests touch is _electric_. He pulls Craig closer. _Wants more_.

But he can only go without breathing for so long – has to stop for air, heaving in great lungfuls of it. Craig apparently doesn't have the same problem, because he's biting, licking, kissing a burning trail from Tweek's chin to the underside of his jaw, and then down the length of his throat. He's helpless but to tilt his head back, allowing better access and stifling a moan into the back of his hand when his friend starts sucking on the sensitive skin.

One of Craig's hands settle on his chest, and a thumb rolls across a nipple at the same time as he scrapes his teeth over his earlobe.

 _"Fuck_ —"

His hips buck up against Craig, and the taller boy groans, returning the gesture. It's then that he feels it:

Craig's _hard_.

That information makes his own arousal spike and, desperate, Tweek knots his fingers into short hair and pulls Craig's face back to his. Their teeth clack painfully, but the other boy's doing something with his tongue that matches the roll of his hips. It's good, it's such good pressure and it's right and _thank merciful fuck_ — but his pants are in the way, _his pants, his dumb damn pants._

Flying on blind instinct, he reaches down between them, tugs in frustration at the zipper on his jeans. Craig's hand is right behind his, not giving Tweek the chance to get frustrated at his badly shaking fingers.

Dark bangs falling into his grey-blue eyes, Craig leans back. Looks like he's going to ask _again_.

"Dude, I swear to _God_ if you ask me _one more time,_ I'm gonna scream."

Needing no more invitation than that, he shoves his hand down the front of the blonde's pants and right into his boxers. That first, glorious brush of skin on skin has his head falling back on the pillow, his hips rising off of the bed. As Craig fists him in one, long-fingered hand and pumps – _slow –_ Tweek grips onto whatever he can of the other boy. His arms, his shoulders, his hair. And all the while, Craig's gazing at him, eyes hooded and mouth twisted in concentration.

" _A-aahn_ -"

Between gasps and thrusts, the blonde reaches down between them, running fingers over the bulge in the front of Craig's jeans without any of his usual reserve. When the look of concentration slips off of Craig's face and his hand falters in its task, Tweek takes that as permission to dive right in. He tugs at Craig's buttons with a vengeance, floundering only for a moment when they finally give way.

The taller boy's stopped to watch him again, eyes transfixed, and Tweek pushes his hand into Craig's underwear. He wraps his fingers around the smooth, warm flesh and, despite the awkward angle, begins to pump his fist.

" _Fuck_ , Tweek." A long, low moan escapes the other boy's mouth, and then he's burying his face against Tweek's neck, hot breath sending shivers down his spine. And Tweek's fine, totally in control, able to keep his cool right up until Craig starts jerking him off again.

"O-oh _Jesus_."

Unable to stop himself, he bucks into Craig's fist, screwing his eyes shut as the heat in the pit of his stomach reaches a crescendo. He's unable to do anything but rock desperately against the tight grip, chest heaving and leg curling up over the other boy's hip. He tries his best to keep up the rhythm of his hand for Craig, but coordination is impossible, he can't catch his breath, and _damn it_ , the other boy's sucking, _hard_ , on the skin just under Tweek's ear.

It's all over the second Craig bites down, just so.

"Cr-raig _nnngh_ I— _ahh_!"

His vision goes white and his hips thrust erratically, coming harder than he thinks he ever has before. His free hand claws at the sheets and his head snaps back against the pillow, wet lines painting his stomach where his tip emerges from his pants. If it weren't for the hand Craig presses down against his mouth in an attempt to muffle his keening cry, there's a good chance the whole house would've woken up.

Still, the other boy helps him ride out the waves of his orgasm, passing his fingers up and down his length until Tweek is shuddering, breath shaky and eyes glazed. As he comes back to himself, he wades through an uodd mix of bliss and vertigo. He's boneless and relaxed from his head to his toes.

Even as a heavy, draining lethargy starts sinking into his limbs, Tweek tightens his lax grip on Craig, running his thumb over the head and smearing pre down the underside of his shaft. The quiet, inarticulate noises the other boy makes against his oversensitive throat and the rolling of his hips keeps Tweek's heart thumping hard in his chest. It only gets worse when Craig's hand overlaps his, guiding the movements and leading him into a twisting motion.

The blonde turns his head, shifts just far enough away to make out the grimace of pleasure. His wrist aches from the angle, but it's worth it to see unswayable, calm Craig Tucker falling to pieces. A warm surge of affection clutches at Tweek's chest and, passing a trembling hand over Craig's back, he leans forwards to kiss him. Bleary eyes crack open and lock onto his, and then, he's coming into Tweek's palm.

Fascinated, he watches as Craig unravel. A broken moan that sounds uncannily like, " _Tweek,_ " has him leaning in for another brush of lips. Desire tingles in the base of his spine and the pit of his stomach.

In the aftermath, they lay there, Craig's full weight slipping off to the side but their legs remaining tangled. The taller boy throws an arm over Tweek's torso and pulls the blonde closer, and it is warm and safe. (If not maybe a little sticky.)

Through the tired, drunken fog that is clouding his mind, though...

Tweek is beginning to panic.

 _What the hell just happened?_

...

A/N: oh geez, the joy of writing sex scenes... I'd really appreciate hearing what people thought :'))


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: /takes cover/

...

 _Unresolved_

6

...

Tweek doesn't sleep.

He has no idea how long he lies there, flat on his back and staring blankly up at the ceiling, but no matter how heavy his eyes are, he can't shut off. Craig doesn't share this problem, slipping so easily into dreams that he might as well be dead. This isn't an uncommon occurrence, but it isn't comforting in the way it normally is.

There's something bad about what just happened between them, a troubling sense of foreboding that stifles the lingering afterglow and leaves him unable to shut off.

At first Tweek's thoughts swim, the surface of his mind barely disturbed by the darkness leaking out beneath it. But he doesn't like the murky loss of control that being drunk offers – it makes his skin crawl the same way that taking Ritalin does – and he fights it. As the hours go by, tiny snatches of common sense begin to break through the haze, and as they do, ripples form.

 _He just got a handjob_. The turquoise walls throb - he shuts his eyes, but that's even worse. The light is still on overhead and it turns the insides of his eyelids the orange-pink of smoked salmon. ( _He hates salmon_.) Opens them again.

 _He just got a handjob from his best friend_. Tweek exhales something that might've been a laugh, if only it hadn't trickled out silent. His throat closes up behind it, barring the way.

Handjobs count as sex, don't they? He isn't sure – doesn't know how those sorts of things work between two guys, even if he _does_ understand the physical side of things. " _Sexual intercourse isn't all about penetration, kids,_ " Mrs Foster had said way back in sophomore year, during Sex Ed., nasal voice grating. " _There are many ways to spread venereal diseases, and you must be vigilant when it comes to taking precautions and using protection._ "

Her speech rings through Tweek's head in time to his pulse. It plays over and over, on a loop, until his temples ache and he's fighting a tic in his cheek.

 _If handjobs count, then that's two firsts that he's lost in one night_ —

Craig shifts in his sleep, the arm over Tweek's chest tightening, and his face nuzzling into blonde hair. Tweek doesn't watch – just keeps staring upwards, heart bucking against his ribs until the other boy settles back down. He got kissed by his best friend, so many times he's lost count, and every time… he actually enjoyed it.

But he's never really _liked_ sex – not enough that he has any fantasies, or to have bothered experimenting much with himself. He's never seen the appeal in porn and hasn't wanted to be with anyone in that way. Sure he's jerked off, but he doesn't like thinking of other people touching him or _doing_ things to him when he does. For Tweek, it's always been methodical, a means to an end. It's just friction. It's just stress release.

( _Won't ever be again. The feel of Craig's long fingers, the press of mouth, the stroke of tongue, wet heat and tight grips— he won't ever_ not _envision that when he touches himself now.)_

In one night, Tweek's lost two things he never even knew he'd wanted to keep, and he's gained something that can never be undone. He swallows around a dry throat, starts in on the breathing exercises his therapist, Olive, showed him. _In through the nose for four beats. Hold for seven. Out of the mouth for eight._ She says it's meant to help with anxiety and panic attacks but—

It's doing nothing.

His best friend saw him come, had his fingers around his dick and jerked him off and _they aren't in love_. That much, Tweek is sure of. He doesn't need to be a fucking genius to work out it was just sexual tension, or some shit. They're in a fake relationship, for God sake – have been since Elementary – and they're horny teens. This sort of mess up was bound to happen eventually... right?

( _Wrong_.)

Oh God _, he's ruined everything_. He should have gone back to his own house when Craig offered to take him. He shouldn't have drunk anything. He shouldn't have gone to the damn party in the first place, no matter how much Craig begged and pleaded. And now, because he didn't use his common sense, everything's messed up.

He's terrified of the morning, and the conversation that he knows is inevitable. Craig will tell him to think about it logically, will tell him it was just a drunken mistake, and that they can get past it; Tweek won't. This isn't the sort of thing he can brush off, and Craig is too important to him. Eventually, whatever friendship that was between them will end, and it'll be painful and drawn out and ruinous on the rest of their lives. Ultimately, if he pretends like everything's alright the way Craig will want him to, he'll lose Craig as a friend forever. He's sure this is the direction it's going to go in, because whenever Tweek let's his feelings take charge, things go bad. Even knowing this, he thinks that it shouldn't feel like he's about to lose a limb.

Like someone's started hacking off a part of his body with a rusty shiv.

If Tweek is going to lose a limb one way or another, he's gonna be sure to deliver the severing cut. He's the one who fucked this up anyway, so he might as well end things on his terms. He'll end them neat and clean, and hopefully that way, whatever wound is left will heal over with time. Hopefully.

(But he's never been an optimistic person, has he?)

The burn in Tweek's eyes gets progressively worse, until he has to lift Craig's arm off him and roll onto his side, curling around himself and pressing his forehead to the cold wall. He pulls his arms tight against his chest, nails biting into the heels of his hands. At his back, Craig turns onto his stomach, throws one leg over the edge of the bed and starts to quietly snore.

And all Tweek does is lay there, tucked so tight into himself that he can't breathe in the air he needs for the exercises.

When the tears start, he doesn't fight them.

…

By the time the other boy begins to stir, the sun is starting to rise.

Somewhere in the night Tweek deteriorated from still, silent crying to dry-eyed twitchiness so bad the back of his neck aches and his shoulders are tensing against the spasms. He's pretty sure his nails have sunk into the flesh of his palms, but he can't bring himself to look down at them.

His temples are pounding like someone's been trying to scoop his brains out through them, and he isn't sure if it's from dehydration or an impending caffeine migraine. Maybe it's the stress. Whatever the case, it's helping nothing.

"Mnnng," Craig says behind him, rolling onto his back and stretching.

Tweek lies, stiff, listening to the change in his friend's breathing. He doesn't turn over to look at him or acknowledge him in any way, but his pulse jumps and he can't help a violent spasms of the muscles in his face.

"Nn… dude, what…? What time...?" A sigh. A groan. "We left the light on?" There's a rustle of covers and a dip in the middle of the bed that says Craig's sitting up.

A long stretch of quiet follows and he can't see anything, but he can _feel_. Can feel eyes on his back as he twitches – as his breath hitches.

 _He's scared_. He should've left before Craig woke up. Should've written what he had to down on a note and gone home.

"…Tweek?" The sound of shifting fabric, and Tweek can see Craig leaning over – looking down at him – through his peripheral vision.

He scrunches his eyes shut. Oh, Jesus Christ, he feels like he's gonna throw up.

"Babe, y'alright? What's wrong?"

A hand grazes his shoulder and Tweek jolts up, a strangled shriek escaping him. He scrambles away from Craig, who tries to steady him, and towards the far end of the bed. The blankets are dragged with him, tangled around his feet.

Back against the wall and bare chest heaving, his gaze finally flickers over his best friend.

Looking at Craig is like looking at a stranger. With his torso bare and his unbuttoned jeans hanging low on his hips like that, Tweek can see the long, subtle lines of muscles in his arms, the definition of his stomach from Craig's games of soccer and basketball with the guys. He tears his attention away from the dark hair trailing down under the hem of his boxers and back to the hand that's held aloft, in his direction.

His dark hair is rumpled and there's a pillow mark running down the length of his cheek. Blue-grey eyes go from wide to hooded in the time takes for Tweek to reach some semblance of stillness.

The hand reaching out for Tweek drops, and Craig settles back against the headboard, stretching out long legs, posture relaxed. The way his eyes travel over Tweek's bare torso makes goosebumps rise on the blonde's arms—

" _Nggghh_ , would you _stop that_?" He brings his knees up in front of him and hurriedly yanks up his zip when he realizes that it's still open. "Stop fucking staring."

Craig actually has the nerve to chortle, rubbing his hands over his face. "Sorry, dude. Sorry," he says, lips curling up in a small smile. "This," he gestures briefly between them, "is just really surreal. Y'know?"

Surreal? _Surreal_? What the hell— is this some kind of joke to him?

"The— urgh— the fuck does that mean?" He can't help how shrill his voice is. Ears ringing, he takes great handfuls of his hair and tugs.

Tweek watches the smile slip away. Good, he thinks. Maybe he'll stop laughing and just let Tweek get on with it. Get on with ruining the last bit of anything good between them. "I just… didn't expect this. It's not like it's something I planned on doing last night." All Craig offers is a jolty, one-shouldered shrug. "I mean fuck, dude, we must've been really hammered."

Yep, there it is. Denial. Pushing off the blame. Step one to shoving everything over to one side and pretending they're alright.

Still, the words stab right through Tweek's queasy stomach. Even though he knew this was inevitable, it hurts. "Yeah, and I guess—augh—I guess dumb shit ju-just happens, huh? Is that it?" Dumb shit happens but it doesn't matter because, hey, it's not like anything's lost between friends, right? Tweek'll just be _fine_ with losing his virginity in some kind of emotionless one-night stand. He'll be fine losing his only real friend because of the ramifications of them sleeping together.

"What?"

He ignores the furrowing of Craig's brow and slings his legs over the edge of the bed, stumbling upright and kicking the clinging blanket off of him. His world tilts on its axis, and he wobbles—

"Shit. Babe, you alright? You don't look so—"

Tears himself away from the hands that try to hold him up.

"Don't fucking touch me, man. Just… don't." As soon as he's able to, he gathers his green t-shirt up off of the floor, thrusting his arms through the holes and then tugging it over his head. (Can't bring himself to care that the damn thing's inside out.) "I can't, _nngh,_ deal with this shit right now."

He's been thinking it through all night, steadying himself for the worst possible outcome, but... all he wants now is to run. To put it off a while longer, after all. It'll be easier if he just gets out of here; if he can just be alone to think this through.

"What? Wait – Tweek, slow down."

He turns away, crosses the room on legs that don't want to cooperate and throws himself down onto the floor by his shoes. His vision is trying to warp the world around him, even as he's cramming his feet inside his trainers, the laces still triple-knotted from the night before.

"Where are you going?" Craig's up too, crowding into his space and trapping him right by the door. "What the hell is going on?"

"Where do you _think_ I'm going?" His eyes are stinging again and, _fuck_ , hasn't he cried enough in the last twelve hours? Just let me go home, he thinks. Just let me go home without making this worse. (Gotta make a clean cut, or the wound won't heal right.)

Second shoe on, he makes a grab for his jacket; Craig beats him to it, snatching it up off of the floor as Tweek's fingertips brush over the hem, and stepping back so that it's out of reach.

"What the _fuck_? Give me my coat, you asshole!"

"No." There's a sharp note to Craig's voice that Tweek hasn't heard in a long time. "Not before you tell me what I did wrong."

An inarticulate wail of frustration escapes him. He doesn't care that Craig's family are likely all still sleeping. "Why are you _doing_ this? Why're you— _nnn_ — making this so goddamn difficult?"

"Because I don't understand!" Craig's shout cuts over the rapid wheeze of breath in and out of Tweek's chest. And then, he says more quietly: "I don't get what the fuck's going on, dude. I thought we were cool." He runs a hand through dark hair. "I didn't think this would be such a big deal."

(Tweek's going to hyperventilate. Doesn't know how to stick to his plan. Everything's falling apart already.)

"Yeah, well, you were wrong." He's losing his voice, unable to meet his best friend's eyes.

"But," Craig says, sinking down to crouch in front of him and ducking his head to try and meet Tweek's gaze, "it's _not_ , dude. What happened… it doesn't have to be some huge drama. Not if we talk about it, figure it out."

"Drama? You… you think I'm being _overdramatic_?" He _does_ look up at that, gut twisting at Craig's frowning face.

"A little bit, yeah," Craig says, quiet but gruff. "Just tell me what was so bad about it that you're freaking out so much… _please_."

The edges of Tweek's vision goes fuzzy. He wants to scream. "Stop acting like it isn't a— a fucking mess." When Craig opens his mouth to say something, Tweek's hands fly up over his ears. "No. _Stop_." His words are a dry sob.

It's only when his friend's lips presses into a flat line that the blonde pulls his hands away.

"Yeah, okay— _nrgh_ — maybe it _was_ nothing to you, but that was my fucking _virginity_ , man. I think it's alright for me to be pissed off over losing it for some meaningless, drunkass groping. I wanted to lose it with someone who— at some time _special._ Not... like this. Not with you."

Craig rocks back on his heels. Looks sort of like he's been slapped. His grip goes lax on Tweek's jacket, which falls into a heap on the carpet. "We've been through everything together; I might as well be your boyfriend. Isn't that enough for you?"

A high, strained laugh. Oh, God, his chest hurts. He's definitely gonna start crying any minute now. " _No_ , dude. No, that's not 'enough'." _Nothing's_ worth losing Craig over.

Tweek reaches out again, and this time Craig doesn't stop him from taking his jacket, or from gathering up his scarf.

Arms full, he stands, wrapping one badly shaking hand around the door handle.

"Babe, please..." There's something small about Craig's voice. "Don't go."

He gulps. Blinks back the rising tears. Tells himself it's just the alcohol messing him up still. " _Mmrph_... I just wanna be on my own right now. I-I'll message you." His voice is thick, his throat tight. (Clean cuts, he thinks. Clean cuts.) "See you in school, Monday."

With that, Tweek leaves.

...

A/N: ... sorry? :'))


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: think of this as a filler chapter between arc one and arc two. Nothing much happens, but there's still a lot of important stuff buried in there, if you look for it.

...

 _Unresolved_

7

...

Snow's been falling all night, and Tweek is forced to wade through it. The icy wind is like a slap, and he can't help but think that he deserves it.

By the time that he gets home, stumbling through the door, the streets are light and people starting to slump outside to shovel their driveways. One or two stop to watch him, smiling and waving, but he pays them no mind. Just steps inside and tugs off his sodden shoes.

He's halfway up the stairs when his mom calls out a greeting to him from the kitchen. Well, not _just_ him. "Morning, boys. Did you have a good time at the party?"

 _'Boys'_

Tweek doesn't wait around to reply, darting up the stairs in damp socks.

As soon as he's in his bedroom, he locks his door. Well, he does once he can get hold of the latch.

Scrubbing at his head in aggravation, he starts pacing across the cluttered floor, from dresser to drawer, from wall to window, until his stomach lurches up into the vicinity of his throat and he has to stop. Has to sit down, knees to chest, and breathe through it.

Problem is, it's difficult to ' _breathe through it_ ' when he's crying so hard that his throat stops working. He makes no effort to bite down on the sobs now he's on his own, and they wrack his body so hard he's rocking with the force of them. Soon he can't see, can't hear anything over his laboured breathing and loud, inarticulate wails.

At some point during his breakdown someone stops outside his bedroom; knocks on the door. They call something through the walls, but Tweek can't make out the words.

When it's clear he's not going to give them any kind of response, they leave him be.

It takes the blonde over an hour to cry himself out, by which point his rolling stomach gets the better of him. The rush to the bathroom makes him lightheaded, and he barely falls to his knees, pushing the toilet seat up, in time for his first heave.

Spectacularly miserable, he wraps his arms around the toilet bowl and shudders, his wet and swollen eyes streaming. He can't tell if he's vomiting from the stress or from the alcohol still in his system (the first is an unfortunately common occurrence, and the latter... well, he doesn't drink enough usually for him to tell), but it hardly matters. This feels like something he deserves.

During his episode, his mom enters the bathroom behind him, not saying a word, but sitting on the floor and rubbing his back in slow, circular motions.

Once the worst is over and all he's bringing up is bile, he slumps forwards, clammy forehead against the cold rim, and mouth burning with the bitter taste. His mom reaches around him, pulling the lever on the toilet and, while the acid contents of his stomach are washed away, tears off a length of toilet roll to dab at his damp chin.

His eyes are closed, and he allows himself a momentary lapse into the quiet, unassuming comfort that his mom offers. There are none of the pressing, needy questions and ramblings that his dad is prone to in times of immense stress, and for that he is unspeakably grateful. When she's done combing back his wild blonde bangs from where they stick to his forehead, she stands up to fetch a damp washcloth and a glass of tap water.

Tweek lets himself be propped up against the side of the shower, pressing the cold flannel to his sore eyes.

"Here, Tweek, take a drink," she steadies the jolting of his hands so the glass reaches his lips without sloshing down his front. "Slowly now, dear."

After he manages to drain half the glass in stops and starts, she takes it out of his hands and sets it on the side of the sink. With little to no fuss, Mrs Tweak manages to get her son onto his feet, and helps him to the sink so he can brush his teeth. Tweek doesn't look in the mirror - he knows he's probably blotchy faced and haggard without needing visual confirmation - but he does take extra care in scouring the blood out from beneath his nails, and then rubbing away what's crusted around the cresent-moon furrows in his palms. His mom waits until his hands have turned a vibrant pink from the hot water and the excessive scrubbing, and pats them dry with a quiet tutting. She applies antiseptic to the gouges in little dabs, dragging his hands back to her every time they lurch away.

Pulling his arm around her shoulders, she supports him as they make their way back out onto the landing, calm and quiet where Tweek is trembling so hard he can barely stand upright, unable to stop the involuntary noises he's making under his breath.

Inside his room, Mrs Tweek leads him over to his bed, drawing back the covers and fluffing the pillow as he collapses against the mattress. She hums as she moves, a soft, familiar tune that stops his breathing from escalating again. He lies on his side and watches her. He loves his mom, and the way she potters about picking up all the dirty mugs that have gathered on the tops of his nightstand and desk, and clearing a path through the mess of strewn clothing and scattered crafting materials that live on the carpet.

"I'll go turn the kettle on, sweetheart. You look like you could do with a nice, strong coffee." She leaves him with a small smile, carefully shutting the door.

In the quiet of his room, Tweek let's his itching eyes slip closed. His head is full of noise; it's a little like his ears have been stuffed full of cotton wool, and he can't make anything out. The headache that's been hanging over him all night has amped up to something not far from a migraine, but he lets himself sink back into the pain, finding an odd sense of peace in it. There's a box of naproxen in the front drawer of his bedside table, but he doesn't even consider getting himself any. Focussing on his headache means delaying having to confront what happened.

He drifts, weightless and temporarily numb, and doesn't even notice when his mom comes back in with a huge mug of black coffee and his cell phone, which he must have left downstairs yesterday morning.

...

It's early in the evening when he resurfaces from his migraine, his dad jolting him from his sleepy reverie when he returns from Tweek Bros. and calls out a jovial greeting from the front hall. If he had the energy he'd get up and lock his door, but as it is, his dad doesn't often infringe on the privacy of his bedroom anyway. There's very little danger of him being disturbed - especially as he can trust his mom to cover his tracks for him.

What Tweek _does_ do though is retrieve his cell from his nightstand and, with hands that are doing their best to make his life difficult for him, reaches down the side of his bed for his charger chord. He knows just from the fact it's not been trilling nonstop all day that it must've died overnight.

As much as he'd rather leave it untouched and try to ignore the world beyond his bedroom walls, he said he'd text Craig. One of Tweek's few redeeming qualities is that he doesn't break his word. If he says something, he means it.

He holds the screen a short distance from his face and, after a few minutes it starts up, the battery sign switching to a loading screen.

Almost as soon as he enters his pass code, the damn thing starts buzzing with a vengeance. Swearing, he drops it on the pillow in front of his face. Tugs at his hair until it stops. As soon as he's able, he picks it back up.

Three missed calls and seventeen texts.

There's a message from Token asking if they were going to turn up to the party last night, and another dozen from their group chat that he ignores.

All of the calls and the last four messages are from Craig. He taps on the missed calls first, and holds his breath as the phone goes through to voicemail.

There's rustling in the background, and wind whistles over his words, making it clears that he was outside. " _Tweek, babe, come on... pick up. This is fucking ridiculous. Why are you running away when all I'm trying to do is sort this out?_ " A loud sigh. The screech of a crow in the background. " _Just, please... phone me back._ "

In the next message he must be inside (Tweek thinks he can hear a T.V.), and his voice lower and more level. It almost comes across as patronising. " _Look, okay honey, I'll give you some time. You seem to need it right now. Do your breathing exercises if you're stressed, and remember you can call Olive if you need someone to talk to about it, okay? I'll try again in a couple hours._ "

The final one is the shortest, and it makes Tweek grit his teeth. " _Seriously, dude, it's half-five, and you haven't even let me know if you're okay. Stop being a fucking baby._ "

He has to take a moment to compose himself before reading the messages, in case he ends up hurling the damn cell phone at the wall. (It's not the _cells_ fault Craig is acting like a dick, after all.)

08:34

 _babe, let me know when u get home, yh? im worried xx_

11:17

 _can we just talk about it? i dont get whats wrong, just tell me dude srsly xx_

14:09

 _look, this isnt cool. im trying my best to be chill about this but im starting to get fucking pissed x_

17:56

 _u know what dude? fine, go fuck urself. when u want to grow the fuck up and talk about this like adults, u kno where i am. im not gonna play this game with u._

Tweek stares down at the texts and lets all the thoughts he's been trying to ignore swarm up around him. He's so angry with Craig for not giving him the space he needs, and honestly... he made it clear what he was upset about, didn't he? Does he have to _spell it out_?

 _Maybe you do_ , a small voice whispers, almost lost in the onslaught of hurt and frustration. Perhaps he needs to think it over properly himself first, too. To figure out why his reaction was so bad.

(He knows Craig was right on that count, even if admitting it makes him feel belittled.)

Honestly, it doesn't take too long to put his finger on the cause of his awful mood that morning. Not now he's sobered up properly.

It's the same damn thing that makes him pull back from Craig every time the other boy gets a little too touchy. It's the way he doesn't contest to his parents' rules about sleeping in different rooms despite the miniscule chances of anything ever happening between them, and why he doesn't get upset when he sees people trying to flirt with Craig at school. It's in his frustration at kissing in front of the guys the previous night, and the fear in what happened when they got to Craig's. Everything stems down to _that_.

(Everything always does, when it comes to Craig.)

The whole thing's in the past, but thinking about it still makes his stomach drop. The fingers of his free hand run over his thigh of their own volition, tracing the lines hidden beneath his jeans. He likes to think he's worked past those events now - something that his therapist ensured him would get easier to accept with time, but... it never stopped affecting him. Everything's been different for him, since then.

Stilted. Awkward. Painful.

But he's good at keeping that to himself. Mainly because people don't see past his shrieking and his twitching to the person underneath. Not even Craig.

( _Especially_ not Craig. It's better that way. For both of them.)

He digs his nails into his thigh. Sucks in a long breath. Reconsiders the problem.

Okay, so... maybe all this is _not_ so obvious, in retrospect. It's hardly something they've talked about. He's not sure Craig even realizes what started that whole shitty phase in Tweek's life. What's most likely is that the other boy has no idea Tweek knows about any of it. Craig just assumed Tweek would never figure it out, that he didn't need to know and that even if he did, it wouldn't affect him in any way.

(He was wrong. _He was wrong_.)

But it isn't something that Tweek can bring up now, after so long, without seeming petty or bitter. And he supposes that yeah, okay, maybe he _is_ those things somewhere deep inside, but he's also scared. Of the ramifications if it gets out, and the damage it might do to whatever else they're going through. So for the last two years he's determinedly ignored that chapter in their lives, has pretended everything is fine, and that Craig hasn't ever hurt him.

(Yet another thing shoved under the rug.)

The damage that whole short, miserable period of his life had on him is enough to make _anyone_ freak out in the aftermath of the previous night, he likes to think. Common sense decrees that he won't put himself through all the lies and secrecy again. It's easier to end it before it can grow out of hand. Before his world crumbles beneath him like so much dirt and dust.

Eventually he returns to his phone and, painstakingly slowly, starts typing up a reply. He has to go back over it several times, correcting mistakes and changing sections. It takes him half an hour to finish it up.

19:12

 _Look man, I tOld you I didn't wanna speak about it right then and that I had to think but you havent let me. I get you wanna figure this shit out and that your pissed off but I know 'talking' just means shrugging it of, going back to before and acting like nothing ever happened. f uck dude, I can't do that. not about this. Thats not something I'm gonna put myself through. We're not okay and Im not fucking cool with this shit. I can't just fuck around wirh you and then forget it. sex isn't just easy for me. it's meant to mean something. If I've gotta do that shit with someone I wanna do it with someone who I love that wants to be with me bc it's not just convenient and . I don't want this to make stuff worse, but it will if we act like nothing is diffrent. This won't just go away man_

He stares down at his message for a long time before sending it. The reply is almost instant.

19:13

 _what then. what are u saying. spell it out for me dude_

His fingers shake as he types out his reply. If he hadn't cried himself out earlier, he's pretty sure he's be sobbing again right now.

Dry eyed, he reads it over.

Presses enter.

19:26

 _it's nothing you've done. Im not angry at you. But I think we should stop pretending like we're dating. Were too involved and We need to stop so I can figure my shit out. I took things bad and I'm sorry. Your still like, my best friend dude_

This time he has to wait longer, and when it does eventually come through, his heart sinks.

19:43

 _whatever. im done with this shit._

Well, he thinks. There's his clean cut. He should be happy.

(He really, really isn't.)

...

A/N: I'd really love to hear what everyone's thoughts are on this chapter. It's been one of my favourite to write. (I'm weird, I know.)


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: this chapter was almost double this length. And then Word crashed. And I maybe cried a little. (Just a little.) So, yeah, here's another short, do-nothing chapter. (There'll be more going on in the next update, I promise. Including the stuff I didn't have time to rewrite today.)

Also, apologies for any mistakes in this update. Due to having to rewrite most of this, I had close to no time to check it over. I'll doublecheck it again tomorrow.

...

 _Unresolved_

8

...

Spending the remainder of the weekend in his room means that Tweek can ignore the world outside his window and just… vegetate. This way, he can work on all his crafting projects and focus more on regaining some emotional stability (whatever _that's_ meant to be when in reference to Tweek Tweak).

He ends up dragging his miniature potters wheel out from where it's been stuffed under his bed, and eventually finds a bag of clay that hasn't dried out completely. As he begins working the pale, goopy mess onto the tabletop, he plays old _Terrence and Phillip_ episodes on Netflix.

Sunday goes by in a blur of wonky, badly thrown cups, sore hands and fart jokes. He put the group chat on silent the night before since every time his phone buzzed it was giving him heart palpitations; he isn't surprised that no one else has messaged him, though he does periodically check his cell, just in case. Tweek isn't exactly what you'd call popular, outside of his 'relationship' with Craig. (Which was one of the few things he ever seemed to have going for him, by everyone else's standards.)

Skipping his meals isn't necessarily a good thing, but he doesn't think he could stomach anything much anyway, and his dad would end up asking him a lot of questions. As a general rule Tweek fucking hates having to lie. He'd do it, but it wouldn't shake his dad off his trail for long (that man is like a bloodhound when it comes to anything involving his son's emotional wellbeing), and it'd make Tweek's anxiety so much worse, having to weigh every little thing he said and did. He knows his dad means well, but being around him isn't good for Tweek's health, most of the time.

Mrs Tweak brings her son sweet coffee and cake ("To keep your blood sugar levels up, hon.") in the evening, after he failed to eat the chicken noodle soup she left out for him at lunch. He chokes the cake (chocolate fudge) down despite the unhappy rolling of his stomach and practically inhales his drink while it's still hot enough to scald his tongue. At least it'll stop his mom from worrying too much.

By the time he goes to bed, the cups he made that didn't collapse have been shelved to dry out, and the clay residue that he's trodden into the carpet and smudged onto all the furniture is flaking. His knuckles are cracking and the cuts along his palm sting like mad, but it's fine. He's fine. Really.

He still doesn't sleep well. This isn't an uncommon occurrence, considering he has insomnia, but it's still a lot worse than usual. Craig's not been there all day – he hasn't heard from him since that final message – and it throws everything in Tweek's life off balance.

His room feels too large. Too empty. And there's no way to relieve his excess energy other than the little meditations and tricks Olive's shown him over the last few years. If he has a night terror again, there's no spare bedroom for him to tiptoe into – no one to listen to him and comfort him and reassure him that there's nothing to be scared of.

The house seems like a vast and empty space, and Tweek feels very small in it.

Come the morning, he's managed maybe a couple of hours sleep and it shows in how jumpy he is. A hot shower and three mugs of coffee might help gear him up for school on a normal day, but all he can do is tiptoe through the house, flinching at every small noise and tugging nervously at his hair.

Somehow the morning is made worse (which is pretty impressive, considering he's already smashed his favourite mug, stubbed his toes on the edge of his desk, and had to sit in a corner breathing in and out of a brown paper bag for half an hour), when he stumbles back into the steamed up bathroom to brush his teeth.

It's while he's wiping away the worst of the condensation on the mirror that he sees them.

Hickeys.

Great big purple and red bruises down the side of his neck, from directly under his ear, to the base of his throat. One has very defined teeth marks. Frozen in horror, Tweek reaches up and prods at it with one finger. (Maybe shrieks a little bit when it throbs.) He looks like the victim of a rather useless vampire mauling.

He'll have to wear a scarf for the next week or so if he wants to keep them hidden.

 _Oh God_ , this really is the worst morning.

Great news is, it doesn't get any better when he leaves the house.

Five steps down the street and he nearly jumps out of his skin as a car speeds down the icy road, right past his shoulder. He's so off balance that his feet slip against the sidewalk, and he ends up on his ass in the half-cleared slush.

Unfortunately, this means that the 'takeaway' style cup he's been clasping in his hands goes everywhere. All down his jacket, over his bandaged palms, his satchel and his pants, before clattering to the floor, empty, and rolling into the gutter.

He yells so loudly that a dog starts barking somewhere down the street.

…

An hour and a half late, he makes it to school.

Having missed the bus after going back to change, he was forced to walk through the snow to Tweek Bros. so his dad could drive him instead. The conversation in the car mainly consisted Richard Tweak waxing poetic about a new shipment of coffee grounds from Peru that had just arrived, and how he was planning to go up into the attic at some point soon to dig out his first-ever coffee grinder so they could, " _Give them a proper test run_." (It's some ancient, rusted contraption that used to sit on a shelf in the kitchen, looking like some kind of medieval torture device, until Mrs Tweak bought him a new one for their twentieth anniversary and made Richard put it somewhere that they wouldn't have to keep looking at it. Unfortunately, whenever his dad gets in new stock that he's particularly proud of, the disgusting thing comes out of hiding for a visit.)

To say that Tweek is happy to clamber out of the car is an understatement. And then he remembers that Craig is here at school too and he considers that maybe this _isn't_ where he wants to be.

Still, he continues on inside, going straight through to first period, since he missed homeroom. Art is normally one of Tweek's favourite classes. He's not a particularly academic student and often struggles with subjects like math and lab. In art class, he's got the chance to express himself. It's an emotional outlet without any of the extra stress. He doesn't care if it's drawing, painting or crafting – anything's good.

What he _doesn't_ like is when Mrs Christie wastes the whole damn hour running through out-dated slideshows of certain, 'edgy' art movements. Tweek didn't take the class because he was interested in learning about some pretentious shits smacking a single dollop of paint on a canvas and calling it art.

Unfortunately though, that's exactly what they're doing in today's class, he discovers as he tries to sneak in through the side door. It seems that the practical element has been firmly eschewed for their first day back, and instead they're learning about a piss stained urinal a guy called Duchamp put a fake signature on for a practical joke and then claimed was some ground breaking new movement. They've had this exact lecture before. Twice.

(It's almost as bad as that one guy – whats-his-face… Manzoni, of something – that put honest-to-God shit in a load of cans, sealed them up and sold them for a fucking bomb. The fact people actually wanted to buy tinned human turds is infuriating to Tweek.)

He's so put out upon seeing the black-and-white photo projected across the front wall of the classroom that, halfway into his seat, he lets out a frustrated yelp.

The painfully dull lecture pauses.

Everyone turns in their seats. His skin crawls, face flushing.

Mrs Christie, the old bat, peers out from behind the blinding light of the ancient projector and clears her phlegmy throat. "Mr Tweak… so nice of you join us."

"F-fuck, I'm really sorry – _ARGH_ – M-Mrs Christie. M-m-my _eurgh_ goddamn coffee spilled all over my— had to go _nnn_ back home and—"

"Yes, yes, well… you've not only missed the first half of my lecture on your very first day of this semester, but you've been rude enough to disrupt my class with foul language and excessive noise." She pauses; makes a face like someone's just spit in her eye. "Detention, Wednesday, Mr Tweak. Perhaps that will improve your manners."

Tweek has one huge, seizure-like twitch and slumps down into his seat.

The girls on either side of him – Allie Darson and Meagan Ridley – shoot him side-long glares that make it _plainly_ clear they don't want to be near him and his spasmodic lurching, and scrape their stools as far across the laminate from him as possible.

He's too busy trying to tear his own hair out to notice.

(It's nothing new. They're _always_ bitches.)

…

At lunch he forgoes sitting in the cafeteria with the others and instead finds a free spot to sit down in one of the second floor stairwells. He tears his sandwich to shreds – first the soggy crusts, then the soft white of the bread, and finally the drooping, clammy cheese squares.

Bit by bit he flings the torn off, rolled up little lumps over the metal banister like missiles, and feels a thrill of vindictive satisfaction when he hears someone on the level below freaking out. Especially when he realises it's one of the girls from Art class.

"Oh my God, _ew_ , something just landed on my head. What— what is it?"

"Hold still, Meagan… what the hell? It… it looks like cheese? What kind of sicko goes throwing _cheese_ around?"

"Oh _hell_ no. Get it out, get it out! It took me _three hours_ to style this just right."

Sometimes, when he's in a bad mood, Tweek is a bit of a bastard.

(Hey, look, don't judge a guy. He's got to find joy in life _somehow_ , right?)

Sending another squidgy little projectile over the railing as the girls hurry off, Tweek doesn't notice when someone steps out onto the landing behind him.

"Tweek, man, isn't that a little fucked up?"

Propelling himself away from the voice, he throws the rest of his butchered meal into the air and screams.

Small, squidgy bullets rain down on him, bouncing off him and ricocheting across the stairs. There's a sound of amusement from behind him.

The blonde spins, the remainders of his lunch tragically scattered on the floor around him (including a perfectly edible apple, which he _had_ actually been planning on eating), and watches through wide eyes as Token flicks a lump of bread off his shoulder.

" _Rrragh_ , dude, what the _fuck_?" he says, spitting out the words. "What is it with everyone jumping out at me on the— the goddamn _stairs_?" Doesn't anyone understand how dangerous it is? He could seriously end up _dying_.

Dark eyes crinkling, the other boy shrugs. "Sorry, dude. Couldn't help it."

" _Ugh_ , you're ju-just as bad as _Clyde_." He brushes shaky hands over his front and scatters the crumbs that caught in his scarf, before giving the apple a sharp nudge with the toe of his boot. He watches as it rolls over the side of the stairs, and only _barely_ flinches at the smacking sound of it hitting the ground below.

Token just laughs a deep, low laugh. "Whoa, tone it down dude. I can practically _feel_ the hatred radiating off of you."

This makes Tweek look away. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he says, "I don't, _nnng,_ hate him. He's just a dick." The fact that Tweek hasn't had to share any of his lessons with the brunette yet today means he's slightly less anti-Clyde than he tends to be after long stints in his presence, but Token doesn't need to know that.

Humming, the taller boy leans back against the wall to openly watch him, and Tweek does his best to ignore this by hooking his hand around the strap of his satchel and hoisting it off the floor and up onto his shoulder.

He's managed avoiding his entire friendship group so far today, aside from having to share English Lit. with Kyle, Cartman and Wendy Testaburger, who spent the whole lesson in an increasingly aggressive debate over _Animal Farm_ , until the teacher ended up sending the boys to Principal Powers. (Kyle had hurled his book at Cartman's head, and the rotund boy had retaliated by standing up and flipping over his desk.) Tweek, unsurprisingly, went unnoticed.

After an awkward moment (on Tweek's end, that is; he isn't sure that Token knows how to feel awkward about anything, he's always so chill), his childhood friend speaks up. "Why're you out here, man?"

"Because it's a free fucking country?" It's not fair of him to be so waspish, but he feels tired and sick. " _Urgh_. M-mind your damn business, dude."

The smile he gets for that is warm and relaxed, like he just said something funny. "Fair enough. Only, I thought it might have something to do with Craig."

Almost instantly, Tweek's shoulders slump. His brief distraction from the misery hanging over his head is destroyed. He doesn't say a word, just sinks back down to the ground and wraps his arms around his legs.

Token joins him, long limbs folding with an easy grace. "Yeah, that's pretty much what I thought," the taller boy says. "I knew something was up when Craig wasn't replying to my texts yesterday. Then I saw him this morning and… man, he looks like crap."

"Sto-stop it," the blonde mutters. He knows Token's digging for gossip, trying to find out what's wrong by guilt-tripping it out of him. The fact is, he's digging in the wrong spot – there's no treasure to be found out here. At least, not any that Tweek'll freely share.

"Look, " Token says, face straight and voice lower. "I know it's none of my business, but I'm here if you want to chat, man. I won't take sides. I don't know what happened, but I'll still be a friend to both of you until you sort it out."

Tweek says nothing; just presses his face to his knees and tries not to shake too hard.

They sit together in relative silence for a while longer, until other students begin trailing into the stairwell below them, making their way to fifth period.

Standing, Token offers the blonde a hand. Tweek ignores the offering as per usual, clambering to his feet himself.

Before leaving, the dark haired boy gives him one more thing to think about.

"I'm not trying to freak you out, dude, but… I hope you're preparing yourself for a storm, because when it comes out that you guys are fighting, people are gonna lose their shit."

Jesus fucking Christ. He's not wrong there.

...

A/N: I know it was a dull one (/weeps/), but I hope you guys enjoyed it.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: **PLEASE READ!**

OKAY SO this update is a long time in coming over here on FFN. Basically I was having some serious problems uploading this chapter for some reason, so in the end I gave up and carried on posting over on my AO3 account, where it's kiiind of exploded. It's likely I won't bother uploading regularly on here after this chapter unless people specifically ask me to, since some of the later chapters are getting pretty explicit now and I'm not sure how much I want to censor them down for FFN's standards/age ratings, but if people do want to read it here, then I'll keep on going. You'll have to let me know, though, if that's the case. ;)

...

 _Unresolved_

9

...

He manages to go until the end of the day before he sees Craig. He's walking ahead of Tweek in the parking lot, clambering onto the coach next to Stan and Kenny. The other boy doesn't look around or see him, and Tweek takes this as his first break of the day.

Even though it's started snowing again, he diverts from route towards the bus and walks home instead.

Because South Park High is some way outside the town proper, it takes him over an hour to trudge back through the snow. He's soaked to his skin from wading up though the snow banks along the edges of the roads and plodding across open fields to get home and he's shivering so hard he thinks it's putting his nervous jitters to shame.

It's worth it though, he stubbornly reminds himself, half dragging himself up the stairs to his bedroom. Even if he's so unfit that it feels like the walk took five years off his life. At least he didn't have to interact with Craig.

As soon as he's shut the door he's shrugging out of his heavy jacket and stumbling out of his pants, which must have absorbed half the damn snow in the entirety of South Park. He's left in his scarf, his green checkered shirt and the same unattractively long type of boxer shorts he's worn every day since he was fifteen. (He doesn't ever take them off outside of the shower if he can help it.)

While rifling through a pile of clothes close to his bed, Tweek finds it: Craig's favourite chullo. Tweek gave it to him on his sixteenth birthday, and the other boy is rarely without it. There's a cold twist of pain in Tweek's gut as he scoops it up off the floor, running fingers that won't stay still over the blotchy, hand-knitted weave. Tweek had spent the better part of a month knitting the damn thing under the guidance and instruction of his mom, and had almost stabbed his eye out with the huge, hooked needles several times a day. But he'd managed to keep the gift a secret. (He thinks, with an aching chest, of how worried Craig had been every time he saw new bandaids on Tweek's fingers, and the way he'd clutched the finished hat to his chest and smiled one of the biggest smiles Tweek had ever seen on his face).

Heavy hearted, Tweek forgoes changing into anything else and clambers straight into bed. He takes the hat with him, pressing the fuzzy bobble on top to his lips and playing with the plaited chord at the end of one earflap.

The blonde recalls seeing it on the carpet on Friday evening, before heading out to the party. He can still feel Craig's fingers ghosting along his ribs, breath on his neck and quiet voice in his ear. It had been a good evening, before everything fell apart.

For a little while, he allows himself to forget his worries.

...

Monday night is almost as bad as the previous, though at around three in the morning, sleep deprived and heavy limbed, he ends up blacking out. His sleep is for once blessedly undisturbed, though he's jolted awake at just past six o'clock the next morning. Hunger pangs are clenching down around his empty stomach, so strong he's doubled over. He presses his flat of his sore palms against his abdomen until the worst subsides.

It takes him all of five seconds to scramble out of bed, throw on the first clean shirt and pair of jeans he can find, and trip his way down the stairs to the kitchen. He feels almost bad when his mom lights up so much at seeing him downstairs, herding him straight over to the table. He knows that she worries about him, even if she doesn't talk his ear off about it the way his dad does, but it's hard to remember that when he's in a bad spot. It's something he's always trying to work on.

The table is set as it is every day, with a freshly brewed pot of coffee in the center of the table, and various fruits, syrups and condiments laid out around it. (Mrs Tweak has always made a point of not serving cold breakfasts if she can help it, claiming that, " _You might as well not eat at all if you're not going to eat properly, hon. If you're going to have breakfast in this house, it's going to be something that can keep you fuelled up all day_.")

Taking huge gulps from a mug of coffee so black it seems to absorb light, he practically falls on the plate of pancakes and bacon that his mom sets in front of him, a loud groan muffled by his first, bulging mouthful.

"Y-you're the best," he says by way of thanks, between bites. His mom pats his shoulder briefly as he walks back towards the kitchen sink, humming a cheery tune.

As usual, it takes very little to fill him up – he just barely finishes a third pancake, generously soaked in syrup and butter. He allows himself to bask in the heaviness of his first meal since Friday, and is so relieved that he doesn't want to puke it straight up – that his stomach seems to be holding it down – that he's almost stopped frowning.

After the hassle of the yesterday morning, Tweek forgoes his takeaway cup and moves to reach straight for a metal flask, filling it to the brim with what's left in the cafetière on the table. He pops his plate into the bubble-filled sink and ducks away in horror as his mom leans over to give him a kiss on the cheek. She laughs at his scrunched up face and flicks the hand towel at his back as he darts back up the stairs.

His surprisingly relaxed mood continues up until he re-enters his bedroom.

Only upon stepping inside for his bag and his textbooks, does he spot the chullo poking out from underneath his pillow. He considers, as calmly as possible (which translates into pacing back and forth across the carpet and trying not to swear), what he ought to do with it. More than once, he makes to reach for his cell so he can send Craig a message about having found it, only to freeze halfway. Does he really need to let Craig know he has it right away? It wouldn't hurt to keep it a day or two longer, would it?

Besides, he doubts that the other boy wants to hear anything from him right now. Silence would probably be better. Kinder, even...

He slows to a halt, picking the woollen cap up and bringing it to his face. The smell of Craig's citrus shampoo permeats the fabric, and it soothes his tattered nerves, warm and familiar.

For a long moment he stands, fingers tight and eyes closed. Undecided.

Inevitably his conscience catches up to him, the memory of Craig's smile when he'd unwrapped it for the first time etched into the back of his eyelids, and he shoves it into the front pocket of his satchel.

Tweek snatches up the pile of relevant textbooks from his desk and slips into his trainers, his face drawn. He has no idea how he's gonna give it back, but that's a problem he can think about later.

(He doesn't, though. Even as he leaves the house, he's obsessing. Planning. Worrying.)

Scuffing the rubber sole of his shoe across the tarmac and chewing noisily at a loose bit of skin along the edge of his thumb (it's a sure sign that he's stressed when he reverts back to his kindergarten habit of chewing on his nails, but he can't help himself), he walks to the bus stop just outside of his house. Despite living on the same street as several other kids in his year, most people in his year at South Park High drive themselves to school these days, or at the very least carpool. Only a handful of seniors take the coach on a regular basis. So, like most days, the only other people at the stop are a handful of younger girls, huddled together and gossiping loudly about... Jesus, Tweek doesn't know. _Or_ care.

All he _does_ care about is the bus coming into view around the corner with its distinctively unhealthy rattle a few minutes late. As per usual the bus driver, Mr Clustervok, looks vaguely homicidal (and definitely a little high). Tweek twitches his way on board after the girls, holding his pass up for the driver to see and slinking down the aisle. He keeps his chin ducked and his eyes low, heart hammering against his ribs, until he gets to his usual seat (seventh row back, left side of the bus, window seat) and finds it...

Empty.

His hammering heart does a weird little flip at that, like its torn between unspeakable relief and a sinking disappointment.

Surreptitiously glancing around, the blonde spots Butters and Kenny are a few rows further back, talking animatedly about something in Kenny's bag. The group of girls settle in the very front of the bus, giggling the sort of high-pitched giggles that make him want to bash his head off the windows. Small clusters of students fill out the rest of the bus. Couples, holding hands and leaning heads on shoulders. Best friends teasing, whispering, laughing over inside jokes.

He realises very quickly that Craig isn't here. He doesn't need to be told it's because of their falling out, but the empty seat beside him is like a gaping hole. If he looks hard enough, he can see Craig sitting there, slouching back with his knees spread out and his head tilted in Tweek's direction. He can feel a hand patting his thigh when his knee starts jumping, and fingers pushing his hair back from his eyes when he dips his head too far forwards.

To alleviate the pressure of his overactive imagination, the blonde pulls out his headphones, popping them into his ears and blasting _Cigarettes After Sex_ so loud his eardrums buzz. He pulls his legs up onto the seat in front of him, threads one hand into his hair, and brings his thumb back up to his mouth to chew. Greg Gonzalez' soft vocals and the relaxed beat help lull Tweek back down into some sort of normalcy. The empty space at his side doesn't miraculously fill itself in, but he at least isn't falling apart over it. Over something so dumb and small.

The whole ride to school, he's so busy trying to distract himself from his loneliness that he doesn't even once think to freak out about the structural integrity of the bus or the questionably murderous intent of their driver. (This, in itself, is a small miracle.) He remains quiet in his seat, rocking lightly against the styrofoam backrest, and stares blindly out the window.

When the coach screeches to a halt in the parking lot, he stumbles off in a daze, blood like treacle and music still blaring in his ears. He follows the back of Kenny's hood and Butter's bright blonde head around the maze of badly parked cars and up into the crowded corridors, cringing as several people swarming around him brush against his arms, or knock into his shoulders.

By the time he reaches homeroom, he's remembered Token's warning, thanks to several people turning to him with wide smiles and eager apologies upon hearing him freak out.

He and Craig are the most popular couple in school – have been since fourth grade – and he has no doubts that people will start noticing the fact they aren't hanging out together. It'll only be a matter of time before the entire school's abuzz with the news of their break up. Tweek doesn't know how he's going to deal with that. Being with Craig has been his safety blanket for so many years that having that comfort torn away makes him feel exposed. Naked.

(Even if it _was_ his idea to end things.)

Loitering outside of the classroom door, he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to work the courage up to peer around the doorframe. He doesn't notice anyone's waiting behind him to get into the room until, apparently fed up with waiting, they shove their way past. Having had no warning thanks to his music, the blonde presses himself up against the wall, screeching at being pushed.

Bill and Fosse continued past him, snarling something he can't hear, and Tweek's pulling himself together, face settling into a thunderous scowl—

when Craig passes by him.

For the first time since Saturday morning, Tweek meets blue-grey eyes.

His stomach does a funny little lurch. The other boy's steps falter – he thinks for a moment that he might stop, might acknowledge him in some way – but then Craig tears his eyes away, and the moment is over. He leaves Tweek pressed against the wall and walks inside. Not a single word. No expression on his face.

A short moment later, the blonde breathes out, long and slow, and forces his body to relax.

He follows Craig inside a few moments later, and wonders if he's just imagining eyes on his back, the way he pictured Craig beside him on the bus.

...

Surviving homeroom together settles Tweek's nerves enough that math and world history – both classes the boys share – aren't so daunting. They sit at opposite ends of the classroom anyway, thanks to their teachers separating them on seating plans for being a distraction to their classmates. This allows Tweek to keep his head bent low over his work and avoid anymore awkward eye contact.

At lunch break, he wanders the halls, picking listlessly at his sandwich (homemade, peanut butter and jelly, and infinitely better than yesterdays) and contemplating his existence.

(This is something that Tweek does a lot when he's left to his own devices, in between feeling anxious about the inevitability of his death and obsessing over the fate of humanity.)

It's while he's licking a smudge of jelly off the back of a knuckle that he remembers the chullo cap in his bag. He pauses, finger sucked into his mouth. The corridors around him are empty. This would be the perfect opportunity to sneak it back into the other boy's locker, returning it without Craig ever knowing any different.

Mind made up, he ignores the desperate part of him that wants to keep it for himself and picks up his pace, changing direction and slipping into one of the side halls. With every step that brings him closer to Craig's locker, his chest constricts a little tighter. His footsteps echo off the walls, seeming so much louder than moments ago, and he's vastly aware of every classroom doorway that he passes. The corridor the other boy's locker is in is one of the stretches with the least amount of footfall – towards the back of the school, near the boys locker room and the gym – so there's close to no chance of anyone seeing him here.

Unceremoniously stuffing his sandwich back into his satchel, he approaches the locker with more of a spring in his step than he's had for days. He can't _believe_ he hadn't thought of doing it this way sooner. Sometimes he's such an idiot.

Tweek doesn't even have to pause to think, before scrolling through to the correct combination on the lock (it's Craig's old guinea pig, Stripe's, birthday – hardly difficult to guess, considering how he's used it for almost everything since they were kids). The locker swings open with a click and a high-pitched squeak that has the blonde wincing. He's so busy tugging the woollen hat out of his bag that, the door swinging wide, he doesn't notice at first. Only when he raises his head, cap in hand, does he see it.

Taped to the inside of Craig's locker is a picture. Just one, about the size of his palm.

In it are Craig and Tweek, aged around thirteen and holding a patchy, frail-looking Stripe up for the camera as he chews on a carrot stick. Both boys are smiling, Craig's braces poking out from behind his lips and Tweek's cheeks sunburnt. There's a window behind them and the summer sun shines down into the shot, lighting their hair – short, straight and black next to wild, frizzy blonde – up like halos.

There's a pang in Tweek's gut as he peers at the scruffy-edged photograph, thinking back to days spent building pillow fortes and reading comics under the covers after lights out. To toasting marshmallows over the hob and sneaking beers out of the fridge. To talking about their celebrity crushes, and slipping in through the back of the movie theatre to watch R-rated movies. Riding their bikes out into the woods on the edge of town in the evenings, just to watch the sun setting across the skyline. Making a 'time capsule' to bury in Tweek's backyard. Drinking so much coffee that they couldn't sleep for two nights straight, Craig ending up violently sick. Playing piano and guitar together and singing made up songs at the top of their lungs. Tweek snapping a ballpoint pen in a fit of pique and splatting blue ink everywhere. (They'd both laughed so hard they couldn't breathe; Craig had rolled off the edge of the bed, limbs flailing and face bright pink.)

That... that was undoubtedly the best summer of Tweek's life so far. Nothing was complicated, back then.

Chest aching, he reaches a trembling finger out to trace the edge of the picture—

"What are you doing?"

He screams. Drops the hat like it's burned his fingers and lurches away. (Jesus _Christ_ , what is it with people scaring him all the damn time?)

Craig's several feet away, watching Tweek with a blank face.

Gulping, Tweek tugs at his bangs and then the loop in his scarf, eyes darting over everything but Craig. "Aurgh, just— just putting your – _NNG_ – hat back, dude. F-found it.. in my room..." His voice trails off, lost in the cavernous stretch of the corridor. His back is to the lockers, and his shoulders are up around his ears.

The other boy steps forwards, slow and steady, and leans down at Tweek's feet. Unable to help himself, his gaze finally settles on Craig, watching the way long fingers pluck the hat off the ground.

Straightening up brings them only a foot or so away, and Tweek is frozen. The taller boy brushes a bit of dust off of one of the flaps and turns to put it up on the top shelf of his locker, retrieving a book while he's in there. His eyes are dull, the stubble on his jaw stark against his too-pale skin.

Token was right. It's only been a few days, but... Craig doesn't look well.

"Are you eating?" Tweek blurts out the words before he can stop himself, and slaps a hand over his mouth. Goddamn it, now he sounds like a fucking creep.

Craig must think so too, because he turns slowly, brow furrowed. "What?"

"N- _nothing_." He tugs again at his scarf, loosening it so that he can breathe. Craig's eyes dip to follow the movements, and the momentary break in eye contact gives Tweek's dumb mouth the perfect opportunity to keep on blabbing. "It's just, you look – _uurk_ – kinda shitty. Not like shitty's _bad_ but _mmn_." He makes a sound of distress. Hides his burning face behind his hands as prays that he'll stop. (He doesn't. His brain seems to be short-circuiting.) "Actually, the zombie look – _oh Jesus_ – kinda re-really suits you, dude, even though vampire would be better. Not _Twilight_ vampire. I mean like, _Interview with the Vampire_ or— or Bram Stoker-esque and _hhrn_ I can't shut up, I'm so fucking s-sorry. _Urgh_ please man, stop me, just put me out of my misery-"

"Tweek."

The blonde's mouth closes with an audible _click_. He remains behind his hands, breathing hard and pressing the bandaged heels of his palms to his eyes to relieve the sting there.

"Look at me."

Against his will, his hands drop – clenching and unclenching – to his sides.

When he still fails to meet Craig's gaze, he repeats himself. "Look at me, dude."

Finally, through blurring eyes, he does. He hears Craig sigh, watches as the boy runs a hand through his hair. All the words that were pouring out of his mouth like verbal diarrhea only a second ago are lodged into a solid lump in the back of his throat.

"You were right. This isn't going to work if you don't give me some time to adjust."

" _Hunh_?" The sound is choked up.

"You want me to be fine with all of this, with everything that happened, and you don't want to talk or give me any kind of proper explanation—" he holds one hand up to stop Tweek from interrupting. "And it's cool, dude, I get it... or I'm trying to. I just need some time too, okay? Like you do. But that doesn't mean you have to tiptoe round and avoid everyone, yeah?"

Craig's voice isn't angry or sharp; it's just tired. (It hurts worse than Craig being angry would have. _This_ Craig seems distant, shut off in a way that Tweek isn't used to. He's all walls where before he was open doors.)

The blonde clears his throat – ignores the burn in his eyes. " _Eurnngh_. Yeah, dude, sure. O-okay." He pushes himself away from the locker, standing straight.

"We cool?" Craig asks.

 _No_ , thinks Tweek. _No, we're not._

"Yeah," he says instead. Forces a smile that hurts. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Hn." He's getting so sick of hearing Craig sigh, but he stands there and listens anyway because at least this way they're next to each other, even just briefly.

"Well, look... I'm— I'm just gonna go. Over there." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "This is great- this's been real – _erk_ – good. Good catch up. Hnng."

He's turning to go, but Craig calls out to him one more time. "You might wanna pull your scarf back up, dude. Or people'll see."

Tweek pauses. Looks over, face scrunched up in confusion until Craig taps his fingers against the side of his throat, one corner of his mouth kicking up in a stilted smile.

The flood of heat to his head makes him dizzy, and he's not sure if it's from the small grin or the fact that the other boy acknowledged the marks. "Oh, God, _oh jeez_ ," he mutters, tugging at the offending item of clothing until it's tight enough around his neck to strangle him.

The last thing Craig says before he can flee is, "And don't worry, dude, I won't say anything. I'll keep the break up quiet on my end."

...

It's only when he's lying in his bed that night that he realises he hadn't had to say a word to Craig about his worries at all. The other boy had just known.

...


End file.
